#dean fluff

There it is.

Sam exhales through his nose. “What are you talking about?”

Dean isn’t even looking at him; his eyes are fixed somewhere over Sam’s shoulder. “I mean, I think I am. I guess. But maybe I’m not. Maybe I look… I dunno… standoffish.”

Sam blinks. “Standoffish.”

“I’m just saying, there’s a line, okay? Too friendly, and you look like some creepy guy offering free candy. Not friendly enough, and people think you’re gonna stab ‘em.”

Sam shuts off the blender, grabs his smoothie, and sits. Dean drops into the chair across from him, and he stares expectantly, eyebrows up.

“Dean, man... I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Okay, if you were a girl and saw me at a bar—”

“Great. Can’t imagine a better start,” Sam mutters.

“—would you think I was approachable? Like… someone you’d walk up to?”

Sam looks down into his glass, searching for the strength to keep going. Nothing. No strength. Just spinach.

“Dean… where is this coming from?” 

Dean Winchester, the man who has picked up so many women he's lost count. And yet here he is, acting like he needs a pep talk.

Finally, Sam sighs, giving his brother at least the courtesy of an honest answer. “You’re approachable. You’re… you. People like you.”

Dean’s expression doesn’t ease at the reassurance. If anything, he looks more frustrated, brow furrowed, mouth in a pout that he’d absolutely deny making. “Then what the hell was she talking about?”

“…What? Who?”

Sam’s eyes widen. Oh. Oh.

You.

He lets out a long, exhausted sigh. Shakes his head. “Dean… dude. Just talk to her.”

“I talk to her,” his brother insists.

“Uh-huh. And that’s why you’re in here interrogating me about your ‘approachability,’ right?” Sam deadpans, leaning back with the weary authority of a brother who has lived through this many, many times.

“Whatever,” Dean grumbles, immediately hating where this is going. He pushes up from the table and heads for the coffee machine, chewing on his bottom lip like he’s trying to think a hole through it.

Two minutes later, you step into the kitchen, heading straight for the fridge like you always do. And Sam sees it. God, he sees all of it. Front-row seats.

Dean cuts a glance at you from the corner of his eye, stands a little straighter, then his hand shoots up to flatten his hair. Sam just shakes his head. He swears he’s going to start avoiding the kitchen entirely when the two of you are in here together.

“Would you hand me a spoon, handsome?” you ask, completely unaware of what you just triggered.

Sam watches Dean freeze at the pet name. 

“Spoon. Yeah. We, uh… we have spoons,” he stammers, somehow producing one like it’s a rare artifact. He hands it to you with the confidence of a Victorian maiden having her first conversation with a man.

Then he retreats to the safety of the coffee machine.

Yogurt and spoon in hand, you head out of the kitchen. Dean’s eyes track you the whole way, drawn like a magnet. The instant you disappear down the hall, something in him lights up.

The man beams.

“Handsome,” he says to the empty air, chest puffing up. “She thinks I’m handsome.”

Then he spins on his heel and strides out of the kitchen, riding the high.

Sam shakes his head, muttering, “Unbelievable.”

Two seconds later, Dean reappears, deflating the dramatic exit. “Forgot my coffee,” he says, grabbing the mug with forced nonchalance. He doesn’t make eye contact.

Sam just snorts. 

—

It’s been around two hours when you spot Sam in the library, typing away on his computer.

You sit down across from him and wait.

When his eyes finally lift from the screen, one eyebrow raised, you say, “Can I run something by you real quick?”

“Sure,” he replies, tone calm. “What’s up?”

You hesitate. Usually, maybe you wouldn’t even ask. But it’s Sam, and you trust him. “How would you… rate me, on a scale from one to ten?”

“What?”

“Like, hypothetically… let’s say you walk into a bar and I’m sitting there. What’s your first impression of me?”

Sam, who doesn’t even like bars, has already been dragged into two bar hypotheticals today, and it’s barely ten in the morning. He resists the urge to sigh. “Just… talk to Dean,” he says. “Trust me.”

“How did you know I—”

“Really good intuition,” he interrupts.

You stare down at the table, lips pouting. “It’s just… He flirts with everyone, literally everyone – even the old lady at the market. He just… never flirts with me. So I try to be casual. But this morning... it sort of got out before I could stop myself, and I called him handsome. And he, uh – I don’t think he liked that.”

Sam lets out a quiet snort. 

“What?”

“Nothing,” he mutters quickly, eyes darting back to the computer. “Just… maybe ask him to grab a coffee sometime. Keep it casual. Start small, you know?"

You hum thoughtfully, weighing the advice. “Yeah… maybe I could do that.”

Sam smiles faintly, satisfied, and goes back to typing. He can survive this, probably. 

—

Dean is sweet.

Okay, maybe he doesn’t flirt with you. Not the way he does with everyone else.

But if you’re being even a little logical, you know he cares. A lot.

He worries about you no matter what you’re dealing with: hunt injuries, a headache, a papercut, a sneeze. One fragile little “achoo” and he’s glancing over all concerned. 

And he pays attention.

You mention things offhand like your favorite snacks, a brand of tea you like, or that one candle scent you can never find... and the next time he comes back from the store, they’re sitting on the table like they magically appeared.

He never says it was him.

Probably thinks it’s nothing.

But it isn’t nothing. Not to you.

And sure, old Joanne at the market gets called “sweetheart,” and you don’t. But Dean has never bought her chocolate before.

…Wait. Has he?

Doesn’t matter.

Because the point is: you’re going to follow Sam’s advice and ask him out for coffee.

Even if he doesn’t like you back, Dean is sweet, and he deserves good coffee.

And you’re brave enough to offer it.

With this thought in mind, you walk into the kitchen the next morning.

Sam is already blending something green. You hover in the doorway until he finally shows mercy and switches it off because you really don’t want the sound of zucchini being pulverized to mark the beginning of whatever is about to happen.

Only then do you cross the room and sit down right across from Dean, who still hasn’t noticed you’re there.

He’s cradling his coffee, eyelids heavy, hair sticking up in five different directions. But the moment you enter his line of sight, he nearly jumps. His back goes straight, and he immediately smooths a hand over his hair, one stubborn piece still popping right back up.

God, he’s adorable.

“Mornin’,” he says softly, still half-asleep, voice rough like gravel, and your brain just… fries. Completely. 

Not a thought up there for a good minute.

You had a speech planned, had summoned enough courage for it, and now there's just… nothing. 

Soon enough, Dean’s hands are on the table, pushing him to his feet. “All right, I’mma—head to the store,” he says, nodding vaguely toward the door.

Sure. Go flirt with Joanne, you think. Bet she likes that a lot. 

But then he turns those big, hopeful eyes on you. “Wanna come?”

“What?" 

“Yesterday,” he adds quickly, “you said you wanted to go…”

Your chest melts a little. You only said that to Sam, and Dean… still paid attention.

You manage to smile. “Yeah. I’ll come.”

Dean smiles back before he tries to cover it up with a half-suppressed nod. “Cool. Yeah. Uh—let’s go then.”

He nearly walks into the doorframe on the way out.

—

“Joanne, looking incredible this morning,” Dean practically whistles at the older lady at the counter the second you step through the door.

“Right back at you, gorgeous,” she beams.

Of course she’s beaming. You’d beam too if he said you looked incredible.

Then she leans in conspiratorially, glancing around like she’s sharing state secrets. “Placed an order for that pie you like. Should be here tomorrow.”

Dean grins. “Sweetheart, you sure you wanna keep your husband? Competition’s fierce… just sayin’.”

You glare at the mismatched floor tiles and make your way toward the fridge aisle, while Joanne giggles behind the counter. Again, who can blame her? 

Then they start talking in hushed tones, leaning in toward each other. You’re pretty sure they’re talking about you because of the way she keeps sneaking glances your way. You strain to hear while pretending to examine the products, but you’re too far away to catch a word. By the time you edge closer, the conversation cuts off, and Dean doesn’t even glance in your direction.

When you finally reach the till, Joanne leans in and whispers, “Darling, you gotta snatch that before it’s too late.”

She nods toward Dean, who’s hovering near the snack aisle. “I mean, look at him,” she adds, shaking her head with exaggerated approval. Your eyes follow hers, taking in everything from head to toe. “Seriously. If he looked at me the way he looks at you, I wouldn’t just stand there doing nothing.”

“The way he looks at me?” you echo, because apparently that’s the only sentence your brain can manage.

Joanne stares at you. “Sweetheart… are your eyes just for decoration?”

“What?" 

Before she can say anything else, Dean returns with a bag of chips and puts it down gently on the conveyor belt. “Got the ones you like,” he murmurs, not quite meeting your eyes.

Aww, he's so cute. 

You glance at Dean.

Then at the chips.

Then back at Joanne, who lifts her eyebrows in a ‘see what I mean?’ kind of way.

Okay.

Yeah.

You do have to snatch that before it’s too late.

—

The way he looks at you.

You’ve been chewing on that the whole ride back, trying to decode what the hell Joanne meant.

Sure, Dean glances at you, checks if you’re okay, keeps track of you the way he keeps track of Sam, Cas, his car, everything he cares about. That’s just… Dean. Nothing special about it.

Right?

“What were you and Joanne talkin’ about?” he asks suddenly, low and careful. His eyes flick over to you, then right back to the road. “What’d she say?”

He sounds almost… worried. 

“Uh, nothing,” you lie, light as possible. “She might have a crush on you, though.”

That gets a small smile out of him, soft and relieved. Then he glances again. “That's all she said?”

“Why?”

He shrugs one shoulder, eyes fixed ahead. “Just… wonderin’.”

You do not bring up her actual comments, because dying from embarrassment in this car is not on your bucket list. “What about you?” you ask, as casual as possible. “What were you two whispering about?”

“Uh… she, uh… has this niece she wanted me to meet.”

“Oh.” It falls out of you flat and tiny.

“Yeah,” he adds, rubbing the back of his neck. “She thought I might be interested.”

“Really?”

“I’m not,” he says immediately, too immediately. “Interested, I mean. But Joanne kinda figured that out right away,” Dean finishes. “So it’s all good.”

The old lady wasn’t joking. Someone less insecure is going to snatch him up one of these days, and you’re going to regret all this waiting around doing nothing.

But the question is, how are you supposed to live in the bunker with him if you go all in on your feelings and he doesn’t feel the same? That’s just a recipe for disaster.

But then again… The way he looks at you. 

You make it your personal project to figure out just what the hell that means. 

Truthfully, it doesn't even take long to gather hints, one after the other. 

He does look at you, more than you’d realized. Not the teasing, smirking kind of glance he gives literally everyone else. Not even the playful, flirty looks. No, this is different. His eyes linger, soft, careful, like he’s making sure you’re okay, or memorizing something only he can see.

And maybe you’re reading too much into it. Maybe. But every time he flusters when you tease him, or he scratches the back of his neck when you hand him a simple compliment, your brain takes notes. You start keeping a mental tally, just to make sure you’re not imagining things.

You’re also pretty sure you’ve seen him blush around you a couple of times. Enough to make your heart skip.

Dean Winchester, master of casual charm and reckless confidence, gets… flustered. Around you. And it’s the smallest, most perfect kind of proof.

After weeks of quietly gathering evidence and comparing notes with Sam, Cas, and even Jack, your case feels airtight. And with it comes a little surge of courage.

And then, out of nowhere, you stumble onto the final piece.

The big one.

You weren’t even supposed to be in the bunker.

You were meant to be at Charlie’s for the weekend: movies, junk food, girl talk, a detox from the job, and the crises that come with it. But she comes down with a brutal flu and refuses to get you sick, so the whole plan gets pushed back.

You were going to text the boys and let them know you were still home, but you never got the chance. 

Because the second the front door slams, you hear Dean’s voice echo down the metal stairs: “That’s just stupid,” he grumbles. “I’m not doin’ that. I don’t even know if she likes me.”

You freeze mid-step.

Sam’s answer comes fast, like he’s run out of patience for the year. “Dean. Be serious. Are your eyes just for decoration?”

Sam and Joanne could be good friends, you think. They’re both full-time members of the Dean Appreciation Squad anyway.

Dean huffs loudly. “She lives here, Sam. What if you’re wrong? I don’t wanna make her uncomfortable.” His voice dips, softer, almost guilty. “God knows I probably already do.”

Your heart drops.

He actually thinks he might be making you uncomfortable.

Dean Winchester.

A man who apologizes when you bump into him.

A man who brings you your favorite snacks without a word.

A man who looks at you with care and devotion.

He thinks any of that is unwelcome.

You press back against the wall, breath catching in your throat, because the truth finally lands and it's undeniable. 

He likes you.

Really likes you.

And he’s holding himself back because he’s afraid his feelings might somehow upset you.

...Well.

You’re going to have to show him exactly how wrong he is.

—

You stroll into the garage one slow morning, no hunts, no plans – just a little time to make yourself feel… well, you. No flannel. No worn-out boots. Today, something that hugs your curves just right, a touch of makeup to bring out your best features. You even had time to make your hair cooperate.

Dean’s under the car, elbow-deep in something greasy, when you lean against the wall, arms crossed casually.

“Whatcha doin’, handsome?” you murmur, voice soft but teasing.

Metal clangs to the floor. “Son of a—” He scrambles out from under the car, rag in hand, eyes widening as they travel up and down you, and he almost freezes. “You… uh… you going out?”

“That depends,” you say, tilting your head. “Are you busy?”

“Huh? Me?” Dean stammers. “Why? You… you need a ride somewhere?”

"No, not really. Wanted to take you out.”

For a moment, he just blinks. The words don’t seem to register. “Take me out?”

“A date,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady, though inside you’re practically combusting. 

“A date,” he repeats slowly. “You… and me?”

“Yeah. If you want to.”

A faint blush spreads across his cheeks, just enough to reveal his heart. "For real?"

"Yeah," you nod. "Do you want to?"

“God, yes,” he says, voice almost too fast. “I… uh… I’mma go change, real quick.”

Before you can even react, he’s already rushing to the garage door, as if he hesitates another second, you might change your mind. He pauses, hand on the handle, then spins back with a quick glance. “I don’t think I mentioned it, but you look... amazing. Just…” He shoots you an approving look, the kind that makes your chest tighten, before finally ducking out. 

—

Sam should really get out of the bunker more, maybe get an actual hobby that isn’t research or running laps before breakfast. Most importantly, he should probably spend less time around you and his brother before his last functioning brain cells decide to mutiny.

Actually… scratch that.

It might already be too late.

He did start looking at local classes: pottery, pilates, and even a book club. But he never registered for any of them. And now? Now he deeply regrets it.

Because the poor man walks into the kitchen, thinking only about making a smoothie, and instead walks into—

Yeah.

That.

There you are.

There Dean is.

And you’re kissing him like you’re both about to start something Sam definitely doesn’t want to picture.

Right in front of the blender.

And - oh no - your fingers slip beneath the waistband of Dean’s jeans, and his breath itches. And then he's all like, “Oh baby, if you keep this up, I’m gonna put you right on this counter and—”

Sam slams his ears shut and salutes the blender for its bravery. Then he bolts from the room, muttering something about bleach and possibly moving to another state.

The next day, the blender is quietly relocated to the war room, where it can recover from trauma in peace, and Sam doesn't venture back into the kitchen for at least two weeks. 

And you… Well, you’ll owe Sam a proper thank-you someday... Once he can glance at the two of you without immediately questioning every decision that has brought him here.

And, yeah… maybe a new blender wouldn’t hurt.

---

“I don’t know,” you said honestly, shrugging lightly. “I just have a bad feeling about this.” 

“Bad feeling like what?” he questioned, his brows knitting together. 

You thought about it, trying to pinpoint what it was you felt, but you couldn’t. “Just…. don’t go wandering off,” you ended up saying- begging, more like. 

“Alright,” he agreed easily. “We stick together, and we’ll be in and out before you know it.” 

“Right,” you confirmed with a nod. “Let’s gear up.” 

You exited the car as quietly as you could, making your way around to the back as Dean unlocked the trunk and propped up the panel to the arsenal.

“You and Sam better be right about this,” he muttered, digging out the box of witch-killing bullets. 

Your mind raced through the details of the case: An exsanguinated priest, a dead nun with her tongue ripped out, the president of the high schools abstinence club found without a heart, and various livestock missing various body parts - if this wasn’t a witch, you were a little scared to find out what else it could be. 

“We have to be,” you breathed out, loading your ammo. 

“Can you do me a favour and sound at least a little confident?” he asked playfully, lightly nudging your arm with his own before tucking his gun into his jeans. 

“Sorry,” you said sheepishly, holstering your own gun. 

“It’s alright,” he said earnestly, handing you your favourite knife (one that used to be his before you claimed it as your own). “I’m just not used to seeing you so spooked.” 

You couldn’t help but chuckle quietly as you took the knife from him. “I’m not used to feeling spooked.” 

“We’ll make it through,” he consoled, closing up the trunk. “Just like we always do.” 

“Just like we always do,” you echoed with a nod, following him towards the building. 

The overgrowth brushed your calves as you made your way up the walk, and after a quick survey of the facade, Dean swung the door open after picking the lock. 

“Wait!” you hissed, stopping him before he entered. “Sam does know we’re here, right?” 

You watched as his shoulders shrugged before stepping inside. “Probably.” 

“That’s… comforting,” you sighed, following him across the threshold. 

The two of you did a quick preliminary sweep of the main level before making your way to the top floor, finding nothing of significance in any of the rooms. Making your way back down, you both stopped dead in your tracks as you heard a clatter come from beneath you. 

“Of course there’s a basement,” Dean whispered. “Why wouldn’t the creepy ass witch be in the creepy ass basement of this creepy ass house?” 

“How do you know she’s a creepy ass witch?” you teased, raising an eyebrow at him. “Maybe she’s hot. Or a guy. Or both.” 

He faltered over his response, considering your words for a moment. “I’ll bet whatever tab you drink up at the bar once we end up ganking this bitch. She’s creepy.” 

“Deal,” you grinned, wiggling your eyebrows at him. 

You both chuckled, before another noise from the basement drew your attention back to the case at hand. Dean awkwardly cleared his throat before leading the way in search of the basement entrance, using the occasional noise as guidance. 

“God, I hate witches,” he muttered to himself, slapping away cobwebs as he descended the stairs. 

“I don’t think the witch put those webs there,” you said with a snicker. 

“No, they’re just the one turning this rotting corpse of a house into a lair of evil and despair,” he hissed. 

You rolled your eyes in response, unable to stop the fond smile from creeping onto your face as you made it to the bottom of the stairs. 

A muffled cry caught your attention, and Dean spared you a quick look before running in the direction it came from, you hot on his heels. Coming up on a corner, he slowed to a halt and peered around the wall. 

“It looks clear,” he decided after a moment. “Just be careful,” he added, continuing on his way. 

Upon turning the corner, you were enveloped in the warm glow of candles, which would have been nice, had it not been for the rest of the scene. An altar lay at the far wall, burning candelabras stood in each corner of the room, and the very person you were searching for was bound and gagged in a chair in the middle of the room, surrounded by a circle of candles. 

Dean cursed and muttered under his breath, surveying the room. “I’ll get him, you get the altar.“

“Okay,” you agreed, running across the room. Once you reached the altar, you couldn’t help but stare in shock and disgust for a moment as you took in the sight; all the missing body parts seemingly staring back at you from where they lay soaked in blood. It took Dean shouting your name from across the room to bring you back to your senses, and you quickly upturned the altar as Dean instructed the now freed man to get out as fast as possible and wait by the car. As soon as the contents of the altar were scattered, an ear piercing shriek came from behind you. 

Quickly whirling on your heels, you were greeted by a cloaked figure, who seemingly came out of nowhere. 

“What have you done?” she screamed, dropping her hood as she stared daggers into you. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you feigned innocence. “Did I ruin your big plan?”

“You ruined everything!” she shrieked, slowly approaching you. “You’ll pay for this!” 

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” Dean called out from behind her. 

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited for this?! How many centuries passed by until the circumstances were right? I had it! I had it all! I was one spell away from seeing my love again!” she continued to scream, advancing further towards you as she ignored Dean.

“Back off, Grunhilda!” Dean roared from behind her, drawing his gun. 

“No!” she shrieked, barely lifting her hand in order to easily swing his gun away - and stop you from drawing your own. “You stupid little gnat. You think you can just come in here and mess with things you don’t understand? You think you can take this from me?!” 

Her shouting was drowned out by the sound of your own heart pounding in your ears, your entire body feeling like it was on fire as your throat constricted, the air leaving your lungs and not returning. You felt your bones cracking beneath your skin as your feet left the floor, and you shared a look of terror with Dean before black began to cloud the edges of your vision. 

Without an effective weapon handy, Dean rushed the witch and tackled her to the floor, sending you crashing down. You met the concrete with a thud, and it knocked the rest of your senses out of you. You laid there for who knows how long, fighting off the waves of pain and nausea, willing yourself to move as you listened to the struggle happening a few feet away from you. 

By the time you managed to prop yourself up, Dean was pinned down as she advanced on him, and you desperately looked around for either of your guns. 

“Do you have any idea what it’s like?” you heard her ask, menace laced deep in her words. “To want something so desperately, to feel that desire within your very soul?!” 

Dean struggled against her hold as you struggled to pick yourself up, to at least crawl to a weapon if you had to.

“Well you will,” she sneered, cackling to herself. “You’ll know how it feels. To have what you want the very most to be so close to you, to have it at the edge of your fingertips, only to never be able to grasp it! For it to be the only thing you can think about!”

“Shut the hell up,” Dean seethed through clenched teeth, glaring at her. 

She only stepped closer towards him, cackling to herself. “Your strongest yearning, hidden deep in your heart, will nevermore be yours to part. Be it with sun or with rain, that which brings joy won’t be without pain.” 

“You finished yet?” Dean interrupted, before he had the wind knocked out of him, rendering him silent. 

Moving as quickly as you could without being noticed, you closed in on Dean’s pistol while the witch carried on. 

“Whatever you crave you cannot say, yet you’ll seek it out be it night or day,” she continued, hovering over him. “Consider yourself lucky, you useless toad. I’ve had countless lifetimes yearning to see my love again, and I’ll spend lifetimes more. At least you only have this one measly little life to yearn for what you want.” 

Grasping the gun in your hands, you carefully rose to your feet and steadied yourself to take aim. “Man, you really do talk too much,” you huffed out.

The shot rang out just as she turned towards you, though it was silenced by a roaring wind that accompanied a bright blue light. Within seconds, everything was calm and quiet again.

Fighting every urge you had to collapse back onto the floor, you trudged your way over to Dean in an attempt to help him up. 

“God, I told you she’d be creepy,” he gasped out, groaning as he stood. 

“You want a prize?” you asked incredulously, staring up at him. 

“I wanna get the hell out of here,” he said, ushering you to take leave. “Then I want those drinks you owe me.” 

After what felt like another entire day, you and Dean had dropped the victim off at the hospital, patched each other up, cleaned out the basement, showered, and filled Sam in on everything that went down. 

“So… she cursed you?” Sam asked curiously, trying to understand. 

“I dunno. She tried to, I guess,” Dean replied nonchalantly. “But [Y/N/N] put a bullet in her. No witch, no curse, right?” 

Sam shared a brief look with you, before turning back to Dean. “Yeah, but… there was no body.” 

“What?” Dean asked gruffly. 

“The witch,” you said. “I shot, but she vanished. What if she isn’t dead?” 

“Well, I feel normal, so I’m gonna say she’s dead,” Dean declared with a shrug. “Now, can we head to the bar? I’m in desperate need of a drink… or twelve.” 

Without waiting for an answer, he quickly stood and donned his jacket before looking back at you and Sam. “You guys coming or what?” 

“Oh, do I have a choice to not go?” you asked playfully.

“You can stay if you want, but your wallet comes with me,” he replied, smiling innocently. 

“Alright, let’s go,” you said with a dramatic sigh, grabbing your own jacket. 

Not long after, the three of you were sliding into a booth in the nearest dive, enjoying the lack of people; you guys seriously needed to decompress. 

“Alright, I’ll be back,” you declared, hopping out of the booth to get the first round of drinks. 

“Make sure you get a tab started!” Dean jokingly called after you. 

You flipped him off in response, taking a seat at the bar after placing your order. While you waited, Sam watched as Dean grew more restless in his seat. 

“Dude, what the hell is your problem?” he finally asked, eyeing Dean as he fidgeted anxiously. 

“What?” Dean asked cluelessly, glancing around the bar. “I’m thirsty. She’s been gone for what, like, half an hour?” 

“It’s… barely been two minutes, Dean,” Sam informed him with an amused grin.  

“Yeah, well. I want my beer,” Dean mumbled, tapping his fingers on the table as he glanced around once more. “I’m gonna go see if she needs help.”

Before Sam could even reply, Dean was already halfway across the bar, meeting you just as you got your final drink. 

“Need a hand?” Dean asked cheerfully, his sudden appearance making you jump. “Sorry,” he added with a snicker. 

“Dick,” you muttered with a laugh, hopping down from the stool. “Here you go,” you added, handing him his beer.

“Awesome,” he beamed, taking the bottle from your outstretched hand. 

He followed closely as you made your way back to the table, handing Sam his drink before sliding into the booth; Dean followed suit, leaving you nestled in between him and the wall. 

The three of you had a few more rounds before Dean slipped away, determined to teach a lesson to the arrogant ass harassing players around the pool tables - just because you didn’t need to hustle people anymore didn’t mean it wasn’t still fun every now and then. You watched him fondly, laughing quietly to yourself as you watched him fumble around with his cue before making a terrible break. Harder than it looks, you could just hear him say. 

Your attention was turned back to Sam when he cleared his throat, and you were met with his questioning gaze. “Does he seem weird to you?” 

“Weird how?” you asked, face scrunched in confusion. 

“I don’t know, strange,” he replied with a small shrug. “Like- like antsy or something.” 

Your eyes flit back across the room to Dean, who was very much in his element as he upped his ante, before focusing on Sam again. “I haven’t noticed anything, Sammy.” 

He sighed in resignation, seeming to already know that would be your response. “It’s probably nothing, just forget I said anything,” he replied, shaking his head dismissively before finishing his drink. 

“If you say so,” you muttered quietly, sipping your drink as you cast a worried gaze across the bar, getting lost in thought.

By the time you each finished another round of drinks, Dean made his way back over to the table; much to the surprise of you and Sam. 

“Done so soon?” Sam questioned, raising an eyebrow at his brother. 

“Yeah,” Dean shrugged, sliding back into the seat beside you.

“But you only played one round,” you said quizzically. 

“So?” Dean wondered, gulping down the rest of his beer. 

“So, you usually play a lot more than that,” Sam pitched in, shifting his gaze between you and Dean. 

Dean sighed, his bottle clanging on the table as he set it back down. “Why am I getting the third degree here? I played a game, he learned his lesson, I got over it. End of story.”

“Okay, grouchy,” you snickered, ruffling his hair a little just because you knew he hated it. Except he really did love it when it was you doing it.

“Whatever, anyone want another round?” he asked with a huff, lightly swatting your hand away. 

“No, I’m gonna call it a night,” you admitted, shifting to slip your jacket back on. 

“Yeah, me too,” Sam declared, starting to stand from the table. 

Dean stood as well, assumingly just to let you out. “Alright, let’s go.”

You and Sam both stilled in your movements at his response, sharing a shocked look with each other. “You’re… coming with us?” 

“Why wouldn’t I?” he asked with a scoff, shrugging his jacket on as he looked questioningly between you and Sam. “Seriously, what the hell is wrong with you guys?”

“We just didn’t expect you to call it a night so early,” Sam explained helplessly. “Gettin’ old, huh?” he added, trying to lighten the mood a little. 

“Yeah, I mean, you barely even wracked up a tab!” you declared with a laugh, before grinning mischievously. “Drinks just don’t agree with you anymore, do they, old man?”

Dean scoffed and rolled his eyes, fixing his collar just to busy his hands. “Okay, alright, one more wisecrack and I’m leaving you both here.” 

Despite the finality in his tone, the amusement dancing in his eyes gave him away - as did the hand he extended to you to help you slide from the booth. 

“Whatever you say, grandpa,” Sam teased, patting Dean on the shoulder before walking away with laughter in his wake. “I’ll be outside!”

You chuckled in response, and the stern look Dean gave you only made you laugh even more. “Yeah, yeah. Hurry it up, chuckles,” he chided, wiggling his fingers at you. He surveyed the bar as you finally took hold of his hand, sliding out from your seat with ease and standing before him. “Ready?” he asked, gaze turning back to look down at you. 

“Yeah, I just gotta go pay,” you replied, nodding your head in the direction of the bar counter. 

“Alright,” he said with a nod. He gave your hand a squeeze, though instead of letting go like he normally would, he held it firmly as he led the way across the bar. 

You followed along quietly, trying your hardest to not read too much into it. Though when you stood before the bar and he had yet to release your hand, you gave him a puzzled look. “Did you wanna go get the car?” you asked hesitantly. 

He looked confused for a moment, as if he wasn’t entirely sure what was going on either, before he cleared his throat with a curt nod. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll meet you out there. Don’t take too long,” he rushed, giving your hand another fleeting squeeze before shuffling away. 

Strange, you thought briefly, before shifting your attention to the bartender before you. 

As you paid the tab, Dean settled into the driver's seat of Baby, and Sam watched him impatiently drum his fingers against the wheel as he hummed along to whatever song was in his head; and he couldn’t help but snort a laugh as Dean checked his watch one, two, three times since getting into the car. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Sam chided with a laugh, shaking his head. 

“What?” Dean inquired, annoyance clear in his voice. 

“Dude, please tell me you see what’s going on,” Sam pleaded. 

Dean widened his eyes in confusion, glancing around the near empty parking lot before looking back at his brother. “What’s going on?” 

Before Sam could reply, their attention was caught by the opening of the bar’s door when you emerged from the building, a grin forming on your face as you caught sight of them waiting in the car. 

Dean matched your grin, quickly reaching for the door handle and scrambling outside. “There she is!” he greeted happily, opening the back door for you. 

“Fucking idiot,” Sam muttered to himself, staring out the window with an amused grin as you and Dean settled into your seats. 

The three of you made it back in no time, and, having to settle for a single bed when first getting to town over driving for another who-knows-how-long just to find another motel, shuffled out of the car and into your shared room with heavy feet.

“Finally,” Dean muttered with relief, shutting the door behind him as Sam took a seat. “Whoa, whoa,” Dean barked, holding up a hand. “What’re you doing?” 

Sam froze just as he sat on the bed, staring up at his brother. “What?” 

“That’s my bed,” Dean declared with a huff. 

“No, it’s not,” Sam answered with a scoff. “It’s your turn for the couch.” 

“Dude, I’m not sleeping on the pull-out!” Dean declared with finality.

“What, are you kidding me?” Sam asked incredulously. “You got the bed last time!” 

“Yeah, and I just got ragdolled by a crazy ass witch, I deserve a mattress!” Dean argued, stepping towards the bed. “Get up.” 

“No,” Sam argued stubbornly, relaxing further atop the sheets. 

“You guys are ridiculous,” you said with an exasperated sigh, walking across the room. “I’ll take the couch.” 

“Not a chance,” Dean denied, not even sparing you a glance. 

“What, why?” you asked in confusion. 

“First of all, I’m not sharing with Sam,” Dean replied, turning to look at you. “Second, you got it worse than I did. I’m not shoving you on a pull-out.” 

“Oh, please-” you started to argue, before he cut you off. 

“I patched you up myself, [Y/N]. Don’t bother trying to lie to me,” he cautioned. 

You opened your mouth to argue once more, but the look on his face stopped you short. “Whatever,” you mumbled, turning towards the bathroom. “I’m getting ready for bed. Figure this out before I get back so I can actually go to bed, please.” 

The bickering resumed as you quickly retreated, shutting the bathroom door on Dean’s disgruntled declaration of “best two out of three.”

By the time you re-entered the room, you were met with silence. Surveying the surroundings, you found Sam digging through his toiletries bag while sitting in his original spot on the bed. Your gaze snapped over to the couch, where Dean sat looking like a kicked puppy. 

“You went with scissors again, didn’t you?” you asked, raising an eyebrow at him. 

He met your gaze as Sam snickered behind you, causing his face to sour even more. “Shut up,” he mumbled before standing, bristling past you with slumped shoulders. 

You chuckled quietly to yourself and grabbed the spare sheets, quickly making up the pull-out for Dean while he got ready; hopefully he’d be a little less cranky about it all if this was at least already done. 

Once finished, you made your way over to the bed and curled up under the covers. After saying a quick goodnight to Sam, you were asleep before Dean even left the bathroom. 

Fear gnawed at Dean, his body frozen in place as a cold spread through him, panic clinging to him like ice. He tried to call out to you, but all that left him was a strangled breath as his lungs seized up. He watched as the waves carried you away, further and further from where he stood. By the time his legs finally moved to carry him closer to shore, his feet were so heavy it was as though he was wading through quicksand. 

“No, no, no,” he pleaded quietly, watching as the waters edge never grew near no matter how far he ran. 

Your voice cried out to him, surging him forward even faster as you drifted ever outwards, terror seeping deeper into his bones with every futile step he took.

He couldn’t reach you. 

He couldn’t save you. 

The realisation that you were gone caused his world to come crashing down around him as he fell to his knees. A roaring filled his ears, and he didn’t know whether it was the irascible water that held you captive or the blood racing from his pounding heart. 

As he stayed there - watching the crashing waves for any sign of you, listening for a call of his name, unwilling to move for fear he’d miss you - the water suddenly crept up around him, as if to mock him. 

The sky darkened as he let out an anguished cry, his voice blending in with the storm beginning to brew around him. Yet despite the deafening howls, he heard it clear as day: your voice, calling out to him.  

“Dean.”

The world stilled around him once more, your voice ringing out in a whisper as gentle as the wind. 

“Dean.” 

He stood, frantically searching the horizon for you. He tried to call out, yet his voice still never came. 

“Dean!” you called out, voice booming like thunder from above. 

A small hand gripped his own, pulling him so forcefully he was yanked off his feet. He let out a startled cry, a spark of lightning igniting so brightly before him that he screwed his eyes shut. 

“God dammit, Dean!” 

Another force shook him, and when we reopened his eyes, he was met with the suspiciously stained ceiling of the motel room. He bolted upright, heart hammering against his chest as he looked around. He caught your worried gaze as he wiped the sweat from his brow, trying to steady his breathing as you leaned in closer. 

“[Y/N?]” he gasped out, pushing himself further upright.

His hand reached out automatically, fingers tentatively brushing against your cheek as if to evaluate your solidity. When he was satisfied that you wouldn’t evaporate, he surged forward to wrap you in a desperate embrace; the icy grip of terror finally starting to melt. 

“It was just a nightmare, De,” you soothed quietly, tracing a hand along his back. “Everything’s alright.”

“Yeah,” he said tightly, swallowing the lump forming in his throat as he let you go. “Yeah, it’s fine. I’m alright, get back to bed.” 

“You’re okay?” you questioned, concern laced in both your face and tone of voice. 

“I’m okay,” he affirmed with a nod, casting his gaze aside so you wouldn’t see the panic still swirling within him. 

“Okay,” you said softly, placing a gentle kiss upon the crown of his head before standing from the edge of the pull-out. 

Dean got up after you to grab a glass of water, his heart jumping in his chest as he remembered the sight of you being ripped away by the current. 

“Just a nightmare,” he reminded himself under his breath. “Just a nightmare.” 

Not having slept another wink after his nightmare, Dean was unsurprisingly the first one up the next morning. Taking it upon himself to get breakfast for the three of you, he found himself at the nearest diner waiting for his order. 

Drumming his fingers impatiently on the sticky linoleum counter, a burning desire to call you began to build within him. Knowing you were likely still sleeping, he decided to busy himself with a stupid game you downloaded on his phone. 

Yet the urge to reach out to you grew tenfold as he sat there, a sinking feeling that it might mean you were in danger starting to take hold of him. Just as his mind began to swirl with questions of what the hell was going on with him, he heard your voice calling his name. 

His head snapped up, expecting to see you sliding onto the stool beside him, ready to give you hell for walking here in search of him all by yourself in a random town. He figured you must’ve known he was here, and it wouldn’t have been a far walk from the motel, but it was still stupid.

Though the words died on his tongue as he realized you weren’t there, and that familiar feeling of dread trickled through him after scanning the diner and not finding you anywhere. 

Another voice called out, this time the waitress, announcing that his order was ready. He met her smiling face with nothing but confusion, her smile faltering for a moment.

“Everything alright?” she asked hesitantly.

“Huh?” he asked, before snapping out of his daze. “Oh, yeah. Just a little too early for me. Thanks-” he paused, squinting to read her name tag. “Thanks, Edna,” he charmed, flashing his signature grin as he gathered the order. 

“Anytime, sugar,” she charmed, her smile perking back up as she sent him a wink. 

With one last - albeit awkward - grin sent her way, Dean quickly left the diner; already feeling lighter for knowing he’d be back at the motel soon. His grin only grew when he glanced across the street and caught a glimpse of you staring back at him, proving that he wasn’t crazy and you really did come to meet him. 

He took a step forward, intending to call out to you, when a truck drove by and blocked you from sight. The grin was wiped from his face and the coffee tray nearly slipped out of his hand when he noticed you had completely disappeared in its wake. 

Fearing the worst once more, he scrambled into the car and quickly called you, firing Baby to life as the line rang. 

“Hey,” you answered with a stifled yawn. “Please tell me you’re getting breakfast. And coffee.” 

“Yeah, I-” he faltered in his response, having to let out a breath of relief as he realized you were safe and sound. “I’ll be back in a few, you and Sammy still there?” 

“Where else would we be?” you asked with a giggle. 

While the sound would normally bring a smile to his face, your words only caused a frown to appear. “You only waking up now?” 

“Don’t judge me,” you teased. “It’s only… ten after seven, I barely slept in.” 

“Just not used to being up before you,” he lied, knuckles turning white as he gripped the steering wheel. 

“Miracles really do happen,” you joked with a laugh. “You sound weird, is everything okay?” you added, worry tinting your voice. 

“Hm?” he wondered, not processing your question right away. “Oh, no- yeah, I-... just didn’t get much sleep.”

“Right,” you said, teetering on the edge of believing him or not. 

“Really, I’m good,” he assured, sensing your apprehension. “I just gotta catch some z’s and I’ll be good as new.” 

“Okay. I’ll see you in a few then,” you relented. “Drive safe,” you added as an afterthought before hanging up.   

The line went dead as he stopped at a red light, his stomach churning as he stared at his reflection in the rearview.

“Just need some sleep,” he assured himself. 

“Dude, would you quit it with the pacing?” Sam snapped, setting his book down on the table for sheer lack of concentration. 

Dean stopped just long enough to stare daggers at his brother before marching down the library once more. “She’s been gone too long.” 

“She’s been gone an hour,” Sam informed, hands running over his face in exasperation. 

“Exactly,” Dean replied, pointing a finger at Sam in acknowledgment. “Something must’ve happened.” 

“Dude, she’s at the grocery store. With Jack. What the hell could possibly happen?” 

“I don’t know!” Dean exclaimed, arms flailing as he whirled to face Sam. “Something must’ve! She hasn’t answered my last text and it’s been-” he paused, pulling out his phone to brandish the screen. “Seven minutes!” 

“Oh, my god,” Sam groaned, tossing his head back to stare at the ceiling. “I can’t deal with this anymore.” 

“What are you talking about? Aren’t you worried?” Dean asked gruffly. 

“No, Dean, I’m not worried! There’s no reason to be worried!” Sam proclaimed. 

“No reason? She could be dead!” Dean barked, his face taking on an expression of disbelief. 

Sam sighed as he leaned over the table, raising his eyebrows. “Okay, let me ask you this: why, exactly, do you think she’s dead?” 

“Oh, come on, Sam!” Dean grumbled. “We don’t exactly live cookie cutter lives here, you know. One minute she’s returning the shopping cart, and the next she’s got a damn knife in her back!” 

“Dean,” Sam soothed. “You know as well as I do that’s a load of crap.” 

“No,” Dean argued, shaking his head. “We don’t know that. We don’t know anything, you know why?” 

Before Sam could even respond, Dean waved his phone around before dropping it on the table. “Because she won’t answer her damn phone!” 

“Okay, this is actually ridiculous,” Sam declared. “How can you seriously not see what’s been happening to you?” 

“Knock it off, Sam,” Dean muttered, waving a hand dismissively as he began pacing again. “I’m fucking fine.” 

“You’re fine,” Sam repeated incredulously. “You’re friggin’ cursed, Dean!” 

“I’m not cursed!” shouted Dean. “Would you quit it with that crap?” 

“Right, because nothing’s been going on with you lately, right?” 

“Right!” Dean agreed with a huff. 

“You haven’t been, say, I don’t know…. not sleeping? Feeling stir crazy? Getting paranoid?”

“Sam-” 

“No, I’m serious, Dean! How can you not see this?” 

“Because I’m fine!” Dean argued, stalling his movements to gather his phone from the table.

After a few moments of silence, Dean rolled his eyes and found himself once more walking the length of the library. “Okay, maybe I’ve been feeling a little weird lately, but I’ve just been tired - and you know what? I survived worse. So yeah, I’m fine!” 

“Right,” Sam said sceptically.  “And have you… noticed when it is that you feel… weird?”

“I don’t know!” Dean announced frustratedly.

“Dean,” Sam chastised. 

“What?” 

“You’ve been feeling like this all week, and it’s only getting worse. You’ve been like this since that witch cursed you - and don’t say she didn’t. Use your fucking head, Dean! You’re cursed!” 

Dean’s jaw clenched as he tried to remain calm, taking a moment to formulate his response. “You’re insane,” he finally declared. 

“I think you’re the insane one,” Sam contested. “You were cursed to yearn for something, Dean. Only in this case… it’s someone.” 

“What the hell are you talking about?” 

“C’mon, Dean!” Sam pleaded with a laugh. “The only time you get like this is when you’re more than ten feet away from [Y/N].” 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dean muttered dismissively. 

“You’ve checked your phone another five times since you picked it up.” 

“So?” Dean questioned, failing to resist the urge to check it once more. “I’m worried, not cursed.” 

“You’re worried because you’re cursed!” Sam argued. 

“I’m worried because I lo-” Dean quickly fell silent as the words died on his tongue, his brain firing into total overdrive as he laughed nervously. “I care, that’s why I’m worried.” 

Sam stared at his brother in total disbelief, trying to find a way to make him realize what was going on- or, most likely, acknowledge what was going on. 

Yet before the conversation could go any further, the bunker door screeched open and the sound of your laughter fleeted down to greet Dean, effectively turning his scowl into an affectionate grin. 

“Hope you remembered my pie!” he called out, marching to meet you at the foot of the stairs without so much as a glance back in Sam’s direction. 

“When have I ever forgotten?” you asked, feigning offence as you held out the bag which contained his pie.

“Well,” he started, taking the bag from you. “There was that time in Redford-”

“Hey!” you interrupted with a laugh. “I didn’t forget, they were out!”

“See, I still don’t believe you,” he teased, heading for the kitchen. 

“Believe whatever you want, Dean,” you replied playfully. 

“I’m still waiting for it, you know. You should get me two next time,” he joked, though he was partly serious. 

“Dean?” Sam’s voice tentatively called out.

“Yeah?” Dean replied hotly, keeping his back to Sam as he went to grab a beer from the fridge. 

“Who, uh… who the hell are you talking to?” he asked carefully, surveying the empty kitchen. 

“Hilarious, Sam,” he said dryly, shutting the fridge. “I’m talking to-”

His mouth ran dry as he turned around, being met with just his brother, who was staring with concern from the doorway. 

“[Y/N],” Dean finished weakly. 

“Her and Jack aren’t back yet, Dean,” Sam said carefully, as though talking to a lost child. 

“Yes, they are. They got back, she gave me my pie, we came in here,” Dean said fiercely, his confidence shattering when he went to gesture at the pie he set down moments earlier and found it to be gone.  

“Maybe you should sit down,” Sam suggested, not knowing what to do. 

“I’m fine!” Dean shouted, hovering over the counter. “I’m fine,” he repeated, moreso to himself than anything. 

“Okay, look, how about I try calling [Y/N], okay?” Sam offered, hesitantly walking further into the kitchen. “See when they’ll be back.” 

“They are back!” Dean barked, glaring at Sam. “She was just in here!” 

Sam didn’t know what to say, the fear and concern for his brother crashing down on him. 

“She was just in here,” Dean repeated shakily, meeting Sam’s gaze with confusion. 

“Dean,” Sam started to say, before the familiar tone of your ringtone came from Dean’s phone, cutting through the air like a knife. 

Dean pulled the phone from his pocket, clearing his throat before answering. “Yeah?” 

“Dean, thank god,” you cheered, sighing in relief. “Listen, we came out to a flat tire and I don’t have a spare because I forgot to fucking replace it and there are too many people around for Jack to, you know, try fixing it,” you rambled anxiously. “Can you please come help?” 

“You’re still at the store?” Dean clarified, looking up at Sam with frightened eyes. 

“Yeah, we’re stuck in the parking lot,” you told him breezily. 

“Okay,” he said, swallowing thickly. “Alright, I’ll be right there.” 

“Thanks, De!” you said happily, ending the call. 

Dean stood there for a few moments staring down at his unopened bottle of beer on the counter, trying to gather his thoughts, before finally lifting his gaze to Sam.

“I’ll, uh…. I’ll be back,” he told him, not waiting for a response before trudging out of the kitchen.

You found yourself yet again rushing down the hall to Dean’s room, his muffled yells waking you in the dead of night once more. 

He uttered your name as you shut the door behind you, and though it took you by surprise the very first time it happened - nearly two weeks ago, now - it was something you’ve almost come to expect. It was killing you, watching him go through this every night and not being able to fix it. You would sit with him, find ways to gently rouse him from his terror filled slumber and comfort him when he woke, but it never seemed like enough; he deserved more.

At first you didn’t think there was too much going on, figuring his shift in behaviour was just due to his lack of sleep. You didn’t believe Sam when he talked to you about it; Dean may have been acting a little more strange than usual, but it didn’t raise any red flags.

It wasn’t until the morning following your conversation that you noticed it, cluing in and realising how different Dean had been; how long he’d been different. The excess text messages, the increase in phone calls, the insistence on you not going anywhere without him and his exuberant reactions to you getting back safe when you did go somewhere without him, his constant questioning on where you were or where you’ve just been. Something else was going on, and you could only think it really did come down to the witch you two encountered.  So you and Sam called up Rowena, getting her take on the situation and figuring out what to do. 

Her words now echoed through your head as you perched yourself on the edge of his bed: “Magic isn’t simple. Some curses are anchored by the witch, ending whenever they were to die. But others are more complex, rooted not in the witch but the object of the curse itself, not breaking until their purpose is carried out one way or another. Perhaps if you can figure out what it is Dean needs, you can break the curse yourselves. If this carries on for any longer… I’m worried it will kill him.” 

While you ran your fingers through his hair, you decided right then and there that once he woke up, you wouldn’t leave without confronting him about it. You knew it would likely start a fight, and you felt a little guilty knowing you would all but interrogate him right after having another nightmare, but all that guilt flew right out the window the second Dean startled himself awake, the sight of his panic stricken face as he gasped for air nearly bringing you to tears; you’ve seen him like this too often as of late. 

“It’s alright, Dean,” you soothed, reaching out to him. “I’m right here, everything’s fine.” 

His gaze snapped to you, unable to hide the confusion and terror still coursing through him despite the relief he felt. “[Y/N]?” 

“Yeah, De,” you cooed, running a hand across his shoulder blades. “We’re in your room, everyone’s okay.” 

He let out a shuddering breath, hanging his head in his hands. “You’re okay,” he whispered softly. “You’re okay.” 

You sat quietly with him for a few more minutes, patiently comforting him as best as you could while you thought of how to approach this conversation. 

Clearing his throat, Dean was the first to speak again as he rose from the bed. “Sorry I woke you again.” 

The dejection and shame laced in his voice tore your heart to bits, and you had to put up a good fight to keep your emotions in check. “You don’t need to apologize.” 

“Yeah, I do,” he disagreed, trudging to his sink in the corner. 

“Dean, please talk to me,” you pleaded, watching as he turned on the water. 

You fell silent, waiting for him to deny you and brush you off again. You waited for him to say something, to do something, but all he did was stare at the running water. 

“Dean?” you asked cautiously, slowly getting up from the bed yourself. 

“I can’t save you,” he muttered quietly, his gaze on the faucet unyielding. 

“What?” you asked curiously, not knowing what he meant. 

“I can never save you,” he carried on. “You always just… slip away from me. Every time. It’s always the same.” 

“What’s always the same?” you questioned, moving closer towards him. 

“I try,” he muttered, seemingly oblivious to your presence. “I run, and I fight, and I try, but I can never reach you. I can never get to you.”

He seemed to snap out of his daze a little, moving to splash water over his face before turning off the tap. “You keep dying. I keep watching you die. I can’t watch you die again, [Y/N]. I can’t.” 

“This is what your nightmares have been?” you wondered. 

He fell silent again for a minute before meeting your gaze in the mirror. “Yeah.” 

“It’s not real, Dean,” you told him softly.

“It’s real enough for me,” he muttered, turning to face you. 

“And is this why you’ve been… acting differently towards me?” you asked hesitantly. 

He averted his gaze, hanging his head as he considered your question. “I guess,” he said with a shrug. “Maybe, yeah. I don’t know.” 

“Dean,” you scolded with a sigh, plopping back down on the bed. “Why won’t you just tell me what’s going on?” 

“Because everything’s fine!” he argued once again. 

“I’m not stupid, Dean!” you challenged. “I know you. I can see something's eating you alive and it’s fucking killing me to witness it. So please, tell me what the hell is going on.” 

“It’s just nightmares,” he lied, crossing his arms against his chest. 

“It’s more than nightmares!” you cried. “You’re withering away into nothing, Dean! I mean let’s face it! You’re practically a zombie nowadays with how little sleep you get, you’ve been acting like a puppy with separation anxiety, and let’s not forget how completely erratic you’ve been.”

He glared at you, jaw clenching as he decided whether or not to entertain this conversation. “Okay, so maybe I haven’t slept lately,” he admitted starkly. “But like I keep saying, I’m fine.” 

“Don’t you ever get tired of lying?” you sneered, glaring up at him. 

He rolled his eyes, averting his gaze to anywhere else as he shook his head. “No, but I’m getting tired of having this conversation all the time.” 

“Well too bad!” you yelled, abruptly standing from the bed. “Cause I’m tired of never having this conversation go anywhere! I’m tired of you brushing off the idea of you being cursed. I didn’t believe it at first either, but what the hell else could it be, Dean?” 

“Oh, come on!” he barked, running a hand over his face. “I see Sam got his hooks into you.” 

“Yeah, he did. And you need to listen to us.” 

“No, I really don’t,” he scoffed, starting to head to the door. 

“Even if it kills you?” you blurted out. 

“It’s not gonna kill me!” 

“God, look at you, Dean! It already is!” you argued, marching closer to him. “How would you feel if the situation were reversed?” 

He let out a sigh, pausing with his hand on the doorknob before turning back to you. “What?” 

“What if it were me going through all this instead of you? Would you let me get away with not even listening to you and Sam?” 

He narrowed his eyes at you, staring at you in silence for so long you expected him to turn away again. Instead, he let out a deep breath as he took a seat, gesturing for you to carry on. “Five minutes.” 

You almost went to argue before you thought better of it, knowing full well that if Dean never came around to the theory he would actually cut you off at the five minute mark. So, you did your best to recount the entire situation for him, reiterating what you, Sam, and Rowena had to say about it all in the hopes of getting through to him. By the time you finished, you knew it was well over five minutes, so you took Dean not interrupting you to be a good sign. 

“Okay,” he finally said with a small nod. “Well, I listened. Can I go now?” 

Your heart dropped to your stomach, anger and fear bubbling inside of you as you exploded. “God, you are unbelievable!”

“Well what do you want me to say?” he grumbled. “I just don’t believe that’s what’s going on.” 

“How can you not believe it?” you asked incredulously. “It’s obvious!” 

“Look, I said I don’t believe it, alright?” Dean snapped. “Why are you so hellbent on making this into some big fight? Just accept it.” 

“No!” you seethed. “I can’t just accept the fact that this could kill you. Especially not when there’s a way we could end this.” 

“No,” he disagreed, shaking his head. “You can’t fix this, [Y/N/N]. You just can’t.” 

“I can!” you cried. “Just tell me.” 

“Tell you what?” 

“You know what,” you scolded. 

“This is so fucking ridiculous.” 

“Tell me anyway.” 

“Why the hell do you care so much?” he questioned exasperatedly. 

“Because I’m fucking terrified, Dean!” you exclaimed. “I’ve watched you grow more restless and anxious every day since the night we finished that case. I’ve seen the life drain from you more and more as sleep became nearly impossible for you. And I know it’s nearly impossible for you, because I have spent the last eleven nights sitting on that bed as you got terrorised by your own mind. I don’t care if you believe in this curse or not, Dean, because I do.” 

Dean stood quietly, absorbing what you said as the severity of the situation began to dawn on him. 

“I mean don’t you get it?” you asked sadly, cutting through the silence. “If something happens to you, if I lose you… that’s not something I can come back from.” 

Dean fell silent once more, running a hand through his hair as he took a deep breath, pacing around the room a little as he turned everything over in his head. 

“I’m scared, Dean,” you reiterated softly. “Please, just let us try to fix this.” 

“There’s some things I should tell you, then,” he admitted quietly after a moment of silence, taking a seat on the bed. 

“About what’s been happening?” you asked hopefully. 

He nodded, staring down at his hands folded in his lap. “Yeah.” 

“Okay,” you said, moving his desk chair to take a seat. “I’m listening.” 

He took a bracing breath, taking a few minutes to build the courage to speak. “Well, you know I’ve been having nightmares.” 

“I do,” you agreed quietly. 

“It’s always the same one,” he admitted, keeping his gaze cast downwards. “I could never figure out why. It didn't make sense to me why it was always the same thing. So I finally talked to Sam about it, and he had a pretty good theory. But, you know me. I didn’t want to believe it because it came back down to that witch and this stupid fucking curse.” 

He let out a bitter laugh, pausing long enough for you to speak up. “What did he have to say about it?” 

“I tried telling myself I was fine,” he continued, ignoring your question. “I was fine, at first. At first it was just not sleeping well… but then other things started happening.” 

“Other things like what?” you wondered quietly. 

“Like my blood feeling like it’s on fucking fire,” he muttered, wiping at his face. “And my skin feeling like it-… like it’s being peeled off my goddamn bones, and my face feeling like it’s melting… and how I get this- this bubble inside my chest that feels like it’s either gonna burst or suffocate me and how it all only happens-” he stopped in his rambling, taking a deep breath before chuckling in disbelief. “God, it only happens when you’re not around, [Y/N].” 

“I-... what do you mean?” you asked breathlessly. 

“Oh, come on, [Y/N],” he said bitterly. “I know you’ve noticed. I text you more, I’m almost always calling you. I just- I get this… this unwavering panic inside me when you’re not around. I keep-... I swear to god I see you everywhere when you’re gone. I catch sight of you across the street, I smell your stupid shampoo when I’m alone, I hear your voice when no one’s there. I had an entire conversation with you and you weren’t even there,” he carried on, shaking his head as he briskly wiped away an angry tear. “God, I’m going fucking crazy,” he added with a manic chuckle. 

“You’re not crazy, Dean,” you said gently. 

“That night,” he started, staring at the wall across from him. “She was trying to get back someone she lost… someone she loved.” 

“Right,” you agreed. 

“They used to drown them, people they accused of being witches,” he continued slowly. 

“Yeah, it was pretty common. Sink, and you were innocent. Float, and you were guilty,” you pitched in. “But… what does that have to do with this?”

“I think they were innocent,” he said simply. “Whoever she lost… I think that’s how she lost them.” 

“Why do you think that?” you asked curiously. 

Dean cleared his throat, staring pensively at his hands once more. “The nightmares. It’s always… you always drown. I keep-... I can never save you.” 

“I don’t get-” you started to say, before he cut you off. 

“It’s how she lost who she loves, [Y/N],” he said curtly. “It makes sense for me to see the one I love go the same way.” 

“I-... what?” you asked, too stunned to think of anything else to say. 

“The dreams, the hallucinations, the- the way I’ve been feeling… I didn’t want to admit it, I still don’t, but I can’t… I mean I can only ignore it for so long, right?” he said, scoffing quietly. “Especially with you and Sam breathing down my neck about it.” 

“Ignore what, Dean?” you asked breathlessly, your heart hammering in your chest. 

“You,” he muttered. “They way I feel about you. The way I’ve always felt about you.” 

You didn’t dare respond, his words ringing in your ears as he fell silent, each of you lost in your own thoughts for a while. 

“I’ve always known that I love you, [Y/N/N],” he carried on, slowly meeting your gaze with glistening eyes. “But this… this curse, this whatever it is. God, it’s just made it all so much worse, and I knew. I knew it was you that my entire being was screaming out for but I couldn’t… I couldn’t admit it.” 

“Why not?” you asked shakily, feeling your tears starting to build. 

“How could I put that on you?” he asked, a few rogue tears slipping down his face. “You said it yourself, this thing is killing me. It’s gonna kill me, unless I get what I want, and given that that’s you, I’m calling it game over.” 

“No, Dean, it’s not,” you denied with a sniffle, cutting through your own stray tears. “You should’ve told me.” 

“Yeah, well,” he grumbled, shrugging lightly as he looked back at his hands. “I told you now.” 

“Dean,” you sighed, wiping your face as you stood from your seat. “Do you trust me?” you asked, walking towards him.

“Of course I do,” he said quickly, almost offended by the question. 

“Okay, well, I’ll need you to trust me on this,” you replied, stopping just in front of where he sat. 

“Okay,” he said with a huff. 

“You gotta look at me, though,” you said, laughing softly. 

Sighing dejectedly, he slowly lifted his head to meet your gaze, a ghost of a smile dancing on his lips as he looked at you. 

You smiled softly at him, gently taking his face in your hands before wordlessly bringing your lips down to meet his. At first, neither of you really knew what was happening, and just when you thought to pull away you felt his lips moving against your own. His hands gripped your waist to hold you in place a moment longer before you each pulled away, staring silently at each other as you processed what just happened. 

“What, uh… what was that for?” Dean finally asked. 

“Well, it was either that or slapping some sense into you,” you said playfully. “Which I almost think you still deserve, because I can’t believe you honestly think I don’t love you back.” 

“What?” he asked, his grip on your waist loosening in shock before tightening once more. 

“You’ve had me since the day we met, Dean,” you told him softly, carding your fingers through his hair. 

“You actually…” he trailed off quietly, trying to focus his thoughts. “You actually love me, of all people?” 

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “I do.” 

“So I- well, I guess I could’ve saved a lot of trouble if I really did just tell you, huh?” he asked jokingly, laughing tightly. 

“I’ll give you hell for it tomorrow,” you teased, half serious. “For now, how about we try getting you back to sleep?” 

“Actually,” he said, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I have a better idea involving this bed.” 

You couldn’t help but snort a laugh, grinning fondly at him. “Oh, really?” 

He grinned back, laughing with you before taking on a more sombre tone. “Do you trust me?” 

“Always,” you said honestly. 

“Good,” he replied with a grin, laughing heartily at the shriek you let out when he tossed you on the bed. 

He stared down at you, a look you’ve never seen before painted on his face. “What?” you asked, giggling nervously.

“I love you,” he said earnestly, brushing a lock of hair away from your face. 

“I love you, too,” you replied shyly, grinning softly. 

He matched your grin, drinking you in a moment longer before crashing his lips upon yours once more. 

When Dean woke the next morning, it didn’t take long for a grin to spread across his face as he quickly realized two things. 

The first thing being that you, the love of his life, still remained tangled up in both his arms and the sheets, sleeping peacefully atop his chest. 

The second being that, for the first time in a total of thirteen days, he was able to sleep without being haunted by his nightmares. 

He felt you stir, and his grin widened as you nestled in closer, tightening your grip on him as you slept. He planted a kiss against your temple, pulling you in close as he blissfully settled in for another peaceful rest. 

Maybe witches aren’t so bad.

tagging: @roseblue373

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

"You're gonna fuss over me no matter what I say, huh?" he asked, his tone more fond than exasperated.

"Pretty much," you said lightly, dabbing at the dried streak. "You should be used to it by now."

He chuckled under his breath, the sound low and warm. He was comfortable. "Yeah, I guess I should."

You worked quietly, your touch gentle as you cleaned the wound on his cheek. Every so often, your fingers would graze his skin, and you felt him tense. Not from pain though, from something else entirely.

"There," you said, stepping back to admire your work. "Good as new. Well... almost."

Dean's lips quirked into a small smile. "Thanks, Doc."

"Don't get use to it." You rolled your eyes but couldn't help the grin tugging at your own lips.

"Too late," he said, his voice softer now.

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, the world outside the dingy motel room didn't exist. It was just the two of you, too close, sharing something unspoken.

"You should rest," you said, breaking the moment but not moving away.

Dean tilted his head, looking upwards to you still, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "What, you gonna tuck me in too?"

You swatted his arm lightly, laughing. "Don't push your luck."

But as you turned away from him, you heard him mutter, almost to himself. "I wouldn't mind if you did."

Your heart skipped a beat, and by the time you went to look back at him, his hand had gently wrapped itself around your wrist pulling you close to him.

You stood there, hovering above him, his arms snaking itself around your waist while the side of his head rested against your stomach. His breathing evened out, the tension in his frame finally began to dissipate.

Watching him from above, your chest ached in the best possible way. Though you didn't say it, you knew you'd stay right here, as long as he'd let you.

He nestled into you further, now one of your hands ran through his brunette head of hair, aimlessly.

"You don't have to do this," he said gruffly. His voice was low, laced with something unsaid.

"Yes, I do." You replied soft and gentle but full of intention like the embrace he had you in. "You never take care of yourself. Someone has to."

His arms tightened around you.

"You shouldn't have to," he murmured after a beat, so quiet you almost missed it. Almost.

"What does that mean?" You pause, your breath hitching. He looked up at you, his hands on both sides of your figure now. Your eyes locked with his finally.

"It means," he shook his head, exhaling sharply through his nose. "It means I don't deserve it. Any of it. This."

Your chest tightened in protest. "Dean."

"Don't," he said, a note of desperation breaking through his usual bravado. "Don't make this harder than it already is."

Your heart stuttered, torn between his pain and your own. You wanted to reach for him, to smooth the lines of worry etched into his face, to tell him he was wrong. But you couldn't, not with the way his walls shot up the second you got too close.

"Why do you do this?" he asked suddenly, voice hoarse.

"Do what?"

"Care," he said simply.

"Because I do."

He didn't look away this time, and it was almost unbearable, the intensity of his gaze. "You shouldn't."

"And yet, here I am." You replied softly, a single hand of yours gently touched the side of his face. His eyes fixated on you, longing for you as your gaze lingered.