Dean x Reader
Summary: Dean flirts with everyone… except you. Suddenly, the guy who’s usually so smooth can’t seem to string two words together, and Sam has to step in to keep things from getting completely out of hand.
Genre: Fluff ♡
Word Count: 3.1K
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.
He’s blending a pile of vegetables in the kitchen when Dean walks in and… just stands there. Staring.
Sam can feel it, Dean’s gaze boring into the side of his head. He keeps blending. If he ignores it, maybe, just maybe, his brother will go away.
He does not.
There’s only so much liquefying you can do to a zucchini, so eventually Sam gives up and turns around. “What?”
Dean doesn’t miss a beat. “Do I look approachable to you?”
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.
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summary: dean gets targeted by a witch while working a case, and she curses him to yearn for what he secretly loves the most. it seems to have no effect, until it's pointed out that he can't seem to stay away from you - but what happens when he tries to fight it?
pairing: dean winchester x female reader
word count: 9.4k+
warnings: violence, hunting/working a case, mentions of murders, gore, evil witches, reader and dean get attacked, swearing, alcohol consumption, angst, fluff, yearning, mutual pining, idiots oblivious to their own feelings, magical curses, hallucinations, nightmares, depictions of death, depictions of drowning, fighting/arguments, heart-to-heart, confessions, use of [y/n], nicknames, mature themes
“Right, well, this isn’t creepy at all,” Dean declared, rolling Baby to a stop before switching into park.
You both sat quietly as you surveyed the desolate building, a feeling of unease washing over you.
“Maybe we should wait for Sam,” you suggested half heartedly. He was only down at the Sheriff’s station, and it wouldn’t even take ten minutes for him to meet you here, but you knew Dean wouldn’t wait.
“No,” he said, confirming what you already knew. “Someone else is missing and this is our best lead so far. If you don’t want to go in, that's fine, but I am.”
“I’m not letting you go in there alone,” you snapped, sitting up as tall as you could despite the pit forming in your stomach.
“Awe, you worried about me, sweetheart?” Dean teased, turning to look at you with a grin; one that was effectively wiped from his face when he saw the look in your eyes. “Hey, what is it?”
“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.
Warning: comfort, intimate talk, dean being such a softie, angst and fluff.
pt.1
The ride back to the hockey house is quiet, save for the low, rhythmic hum of the car’s engine and the soft indie-rock track playing from the speakers. You are pressed against the passenger door, your knees pulled up toward your chest inside the giant knit sweater, staring blankly out the window as campus fades into the background.
Stuart’s vicious words are still looping in your head like a broken record, heavy and toxic. Every time you try to swallow the lump in your throat, a fresh wave of exhaustion hits you.
Dean keeps one hand firmly on the steering wheel, but his right hand is resting on the center console, his fingers open, waiting. After a few minutes, you slowly reach out and slip your smaller hand into his. He instantly closes his fingers around yours, squeezing tightly, bringing your knuckles up to his lips for a soft, reassuring kiss without taking his eyes off the road.
He spokes softly, his tone laced with a quiet, grounding warmth. “Almost there, sweetheart. Just hold on a little longer.”
The house is blissfully quiet when Dean unlocks the front door. The morning-after chaos from the weekend has been completely cleared away, likely thanks to Tucker, and the afternoon sun streams warmly through the high living room windows.
Dean doesn't let go of your hand, he guides you straight past the kitchen, up the stairs, and into the familiar, neat sanctuary of his bedroom. The heavy scent of sandalwood instantly wraps around you, bringing a sudden, desperate sense of safety.
He dropped his leather backpack onto his desk chair and turning to you. “Alright, babe. Sit on the bed. And don't argue with me, just get comfortable.”
You slide onto the edge of his mattress, your energy completely depleted, you feel incredibly small, the emotional weight of the morning pressing down on your chest.
Dean walks over to his closet, pulls out a massive, insanely soft grey blanket that says: "I love hockey boys" and wraps it entirely around your shoulders. He kneels down in front of you, gently unlacing your sneakers and sliding them off your feet so you can tuck your legs under the covers.
Dean look up at you, his thumb softly wiping away a stray, dry tear track on your cheek. “I’m going to go downstairs and grab you some water, and I'll see if Tucker left those chocolate chip pancakes in the fridge.” he made a pause and smiled. “While I’m gone, you need to text your little girl-gang. Allie and Hannah have probably texted me six times already demanding to know why you skipped lit class.”
You nodded quietly, a small, fragile smile appearing. “Okay captain, I'll text them.”
He leaned up to kiss your forehead, lingering there for a long second. “Good girl, I'll be back in five minutes.”
The door clicks shut behind Dean, leaving you in the warm, quiet room. You pull your phone out of your sweater pocket, sure enough, your lock screen is flooded with notifications from the group chat with Allie, Hannah, and Brianna.
With trembling fingers, you open the chat and begin to type.
you: Hey guys... sorry I skipped the literature lecture. I ran into Stuart on the quad before class. He said some really horrible things to me and I completely broke down.
you: But Dean found me. He picked up all my papers and brought me back to the house. I'm okay-ish, just really down and tired. Don't worry about me, I'm just going to rest here for a bit. ❤️
The response is instantaneous, the three dots appear immediately, flashing wildly.
allie: STUART? Are you fucking kidding me?! I will literally find him and beat him over the head with his own leather briefcase!
hannah: Oh, honey. I am so sorry. Do not listen to a single word that narcissistic robot says, he’s just mad because he knows you’re thriving without him.
brianna: Sending you the biggest hug ever!!! 😭 Please stay with Dean, he will keep you safe. Do you want us to come over later and bring you some chocolate?
allie: Yes, we can launch a full rescue mission, but honestly, if Di Laurentis is on duty, you’re in good hands, lean on him. We love you! Text us if you need anything at all!
You stare at the screen, a genuine, warm tear slipping down your face, not from sadness this time, but from the sheer relief of having people who love you exactly as you are. You type a quick “Love you guys too, thank you,” and set the phone face-down on the nightstand just as the door opens.
Dean walks back into the room holding a large mug of hot chocolate topped with a ridiculous mountain of whipped cream, along with a plate of warmed-up chocolate chip pancakes. He sets them on the nightstand and slides into the bed right next to you, propping his back against the headboard.
Without a word, he pulls you into his side. You instantly sink into him, burying your face against his chest, clutching the grey fleece blanket tightly around yourself.
He wrapped his strong arm securely around you, resting his chin on top of your messy hair. “Did you text them?”
You nodded against his chest, your voice muffled. “Yeah, they want to beat him up with his briefcase.”
Dean let out a low, dark chuckle, his chest vibrating against your cheek. “Good, I might let Allie have the first swing, but I get the second. Seriously, sweetheart. Let the heavy stuff go, you’re here now.”
He reaches over to his backpack on the floor, unzipping it and pulling out your giant, messy English literature binder and textbook. He lays them across his lap, flipping to the bookmarked page for your Tuesday midterm.
Dean is navigating the textbook smoothly, his voice dropping into that confident, incredibly attractive rhythm. “Alright, popstar. Let's get to work. What’s the first definition we need to crush? Is it deconstructionism? Because I’m ready to deconstruct your ex's entire ego if you want, but we can start with the poetry instead.”
You let out a soft, breathy laugh, the heavy cloud over your head finally beginning to dissipate in the warmth of his presence. You look up at his perfect profile, entirely captivated by how effortlessly he protects your peace.
“Let's start with the poetry, Dean.” you said and he smirked, flipping the page.
“Your wish is my command, sunshine.”
The soft rustle of the textbook pages flips by as Dean casually breaks down a complex literary theory, his deep voice carrying a strange, effortless authority that leaves you blinking in surprise. He explains it so simply, so completely devoid of the academic jargon that usually knots your stomach, that you find yourself staring at his profile instead of the words on the page.
You shifted slightly against his chest, tilting your head up to look at him. “Wait a minute... How do you do that?”
He looked down, a faint, amused smirk playing on his lips. “Do what, sweetheart?”
“Make that sound so incredibly easy! You just read a three-paragraph definition of postmodernism and explained it to me like we were ordering a pizza. Aren't you a Political Science major? Why do you know so much about English literature?” you asked Dean with a deep interest.
Dean tossed the binder lazily to the foot of the bed, wrapping his arm a little tighter around your shoulder. “Political Science is basically just reading thousands of pages of dead guys arguing about how the world should work, then writing a twenty-page paper convincing a professor you care. Literature isn’t that different, it’s all just about finding the underlying angle. And besides, I told you, I’ve got a massive brain under this perfect hair.”
You're softly smiling, tracing a small pattern on the sleeve of his dark jacket. “I'm starting to believe you. But... why Political Science? Most of the guys on the team are in Sports Management or Communications, Garrett complains if he has to read an article longer than two pages! Why did you choose something so heavy?”
Dean goes quiet for a second, the easy, cocky grin fades from his face, replaced by a thoughtful, introspective look that you haven’t seen on him before. He stares out the window at the afternoon sun hitting the trees, his fingers gently tracing lazy circles on your arm.
Dean let out a soft, breathy laugh. “You really want to know, or are you just trying to avoid studying?”
You nod, looking right into his intense blue eyes. “I really want to know. Everyone on campus talks about you like you're just... you know. The hockey player who's always at the best parties and has a line of girls outside his door. But you’re smart, Dean. Like, effortlessly brilliant. Why Pre-Law? What’s the dream?”
He sighed smoothly, leaning his head back against the headboard. “The dream changes depending on who you ask. If you ask my dad, the dream is for me to graduate top of my class at Harvard or Yale Law, join his high-profile corporate firm in New York, and wear a ten thousand dollar suit while protecting the assets of billionaires.”
“And if I ask you?" you asked him, sensing the subtle tension in his jaw.
He looks at you, his gaze shifting into something incredibly vulnerable and raw. “If you ask me... I chose Political Science because I like the puzzle of it. I like the debate, I like finding the loopholes, understanding the power structures, and knowing exactly how to manipulate a system to get the desired outcome. But I hate the corporate stuff. My dad represents people who use the law as a shield to do whatever they want because they’re rich. It’s boring, it’s clinical.” he pauses, running a hand through his hair before looking back at you, a soft, self-deprecating smile on his face. “Honestly? If I go to law school, and that’s a big if, because the hockey scouts are still breathing down my neck, I want to do defense work or constitutional law. Something where the stakes actually matter to real people, not just corporate boards. I pretend I don’t care about a lot of things, sweetheart, but when I’m in those seminar classes, and some guy starts spouting elitist nonsense... I can't help but tear his argument to pieces. It’s addicting.”
You stare up at him, your heart swelling in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with how attractive he is. In the quiet of his room, stripped of his jersey, his teammates, and his playboy reputation, Dean di Laurentis is completely fascinating.
You spoke again, whispering, your hand is resting gently against his chest. “Stuart told me this morning that you were just a brainless jock who didn't respect my intellect. He said you couldn't handle a real, adult relationship with expectations.”
His eyes darkening instantly, his grip on your waist tightening just a fraction. “Stuart is a moron who uses big words to hide the fact that he has zero personality. Don't let his insecurity define who I am, and sure as hell don't let it define who you are.”
He leans down, his face inches from yours, his voice dropping into a raspy, intense whisper that sends a shiver straight down your spine.
“I like that you asked me that. Most girls who come into this room don't give a damn about my major, or my career, or what I think about constitutional law. They just want the hockey captain. But you... you look at me like you actually want to see me. The messy, nerdy girl from Malone’s is the only one who bothered to ask what’s behind the curtain.”
Your cheeks turning a light pink, but you don't look away this time. “Well... I think what’s behind the curtain is pretty amazing, Dean.”
Dean freezes for a fraction of a second, his gaze dropping to your lips before lifting back to your eyes. A slow, breathtaking, genuine smile spreads across his face, not the wicked smirk he gives the crowd, but a warm, private smile meant only for you.
“Yeah? You think so?”
You nodded shyly. “Yeah, I do.”
Dean leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth, making your breath hitch. “Then I guess I’ll have to keep showing it to you. Now, come here. Let’s get back to those literature definitions before I completely lose my train of thought and start kissing you properly.”
You laugh softly, tucking your head back into the crook of his neck as he pulls the textbook back onto his lap, his voice resuming its confident rumble as he reads the next line, the heavy cloud of the morning completely forgotten.
***
The past few weeks had been a dizzying whirlwind of shared library tables, midnight texts that made you kick your feet under your covers, and a slow, beautiful realization that Dean di Laurentis wasn't going anywhere. He had officially claimed you, shielding you from the campus gossip mill and completely erasing the lingering ghosts of your past relationship... And tonight had been your first official date.
It had been everything you never expected from Briar University’s notorious playboy, yet completely tailored to you. Knowing how easily you got overwhelmed by loud crowds, Dean hadn't taken you to a flashy college bar or a rowdy team hangout. Instead, he had driven you forty-five minutes out of town to a hidden, dimly lit Italian bistro nestled in a quiet historic district. He had pulled out your chair, laughed at your terrible jokes, fed you bites of his tiramisu, and spent the entire evening holding your hand across the white tablecloth, looking at you like you were the only person in the room.
Now, walking down the quiet hallway of your dorm building, your hand is securely linked with his and your heart is doing a frantic, happy tap-dance against your ribs. You’re wearing a pretty, soft dress that makes you feel beautiful, and his heavy fitted jacket is draped over your shoulders to protect you from the night chill.
You look up at him, a wide, giddy smile stretching across your face. “I still can't believe you actually convinced the chef to give you the secret ingredient to that pasta sauce. You are completely shameless.”
Dean flashed a brilliant, wicked smirk, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over the back of your hand. “Hey, it’s all in the charm, sweetheart. Besides, you said it was the best thing you’d ever tasted. So I had a moral obligation to get the recipe for you.”
You stop right outside your dorm door, the hallway is completely empty, the quiet rustle of the building's heater the only sound between you. You fumble slightly with your keys, your signature clumsiness kicking in because your nerves are suddenly running sky-high.
You cleared your throat, your voice is a little shy. “My roommate is staying at her boyfriend's dorm tonight... so, the place is completely empty.”
Dean’s eyes darken instantly. The easy, playful banter melts away, replaced by an intense, burning focus that makes your breath catch in your throat. He takes the keys from your trembling fingers, unlocks the door with a swift, practiced motion, and pushes it open, guiding you inside.
The door clicks shut behind you, sealing out the rest of the world. The only illumination comes from the soft, warm glow of the string lights draped over your headboard, casting long, intimate shadows across the cozy room.
You turn around to face him, suddenly feeling that familiar, sweet shyness creeping up your neck. You wrap your arms around yourself, shifting your weight from heel to heel.
You whisper, looking up through your eyelashes. “Thank you for tonight, Dean. It was... it was the best date I’ve ever had, truly.”
Dean doesn't answer right away, he slowly slips his hands into the pockets of his jeans, taking a deliberate step closer to you. The sheer size of his athletic frame completely dominates your small space, yet you don't feel crowded, you feel entirely encased in his warmth.
His voice dropped into a deep, raspy register that vibrates straight to your core. “You don't need to thank me for that, popstar. I’ve been waiting weeks to finally have you all to myself without Graham or Tucker interrupting us. But right now... I'm looking at you, and I am running entirely out of patience.” he says and your heart skips a violent beat.
Your voice is small, innocent, but filled with a fierce longing. “Patience for what?”
Dean lets out a low, breathy growl, stepping into your personal space until there is zero distance left between you. He reaches up, his large, warm hands gently grasping the lapels of his own jacket which is still draped over your shoulders. He slides the heavy fabric off you, letting it drop carelessly onto your desk chair, leaving you standing before him in your dress.
His hands move from the jacket to your waist and his broad palms are incredibly warm through the fabric of your dress, his fingers splaying wide across your lower back, pulling you flush against his chest. You instinctively rest your hands on his broad shoulders, your fingers curling into his collarbone as you look up at him, completely captivated.
Dean stares down at your mouth, his jaw tensing, his thumb lightly stroking the bare skin of your hip where your dress rises slightly. “For weeks, I've been sleeping next to you. I've been holding you while you study, listening to you giggle, watching you drop your highlighters... and every single second, all I’ve wanted to do is this.”
He lifts one hand, his fingers tangling gently into the hair at the back of your neck, tilting your head up. His other hand stays firmly anchored on your waist, holding you so securely against him that you can feel the heavy, rapid thudding of his own heart against his ribs.
You just whispered, your eyes searching his burning blue ones, your lower lip is trembling with anticipation. “Dean...”
His eyes locked onto yours, completely stripped of his playboy armor, showing you nothing but pure, unadulterated devotion. “I'm going to kiss you now, sweetheart. And I need you to know that once I start... I am never letting you go.”
You don't have time to reply. Dean leans down, closing the final inch between you, and presses his lips to yours. The contact is electric, a soft, breathless gasp escapes your mouth, and Dean instantly uses the opportunity to deepen the kiss. It’s not the rushed, practiced kiss of a campus playboy looking for a quick thrill, it is slow, intensely deliberate, and deeply, overwhelmingly passionate.
His lips are incredibly soft against yours, moving with a confident, possessive rhythm that completely melts the last remnants of your shyness. You let out a tiny, soft whimper against his mouth, your hands sliding up from his shoulders to tangle into the thick, perfect blonde hair at the back of his head, pulling him closer, desperately wanting more.
Dean responds to your touch with a low, dark rumble in his chest. His grip on your waist tightens, lifting you slightly so you’re on your tiptoes, pressing you hard against his muscular frame. His tongue slips past your lips, tasting you, devouring you with a hunger that leaves your head spinning.
The world completely disappears, the loneliness you had carried for months, the heavy insults from your ex, the anxiety of school, it all evaporates into the warm, sandalwood-scented air of your room. Every single nerve ending in your body is on fire, entirely consumed by the taste of him, the strength of his arms around you, and the intoxicating reality that this beautiful, brilliant boy is completely yours.
He kisses you until your knees feel like absolute jelly, until you are entirely breathless and clinging to him like an anchor in a storm.
Slowly, agonizingly, Dean pulls back just a fraction of an inch. His lips brush against yours as he takes a deep, ragged breath, his forehead resting against yours and his eyes are still closed, a look of pure, blissful contentment on his face.
He whispers against your mouth, his chest heaving as he holds you tight. “Jesus, popstar... you are completely dangerous. I thought I knew what I was getting into, but you just entirely ruined me for anyone else.”
You open your eyes, your vision a little swimmy, your lips tingling and slightly parted. A soft, giddy smile spreads across your face as you wrap your arms tightly around his neck, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder, listening to the frantic, erratic beat of his heart.
You whispered happily into his neck. “Good... Because you're stuck with me now, Di Laurentis.”
Dean lets out a rich, triumphant laugh, wrapping his arms around you and lifting you completely off your feet, swinging you gently in the quiet, golden light of your room.
You turned on your heel, you slide out of his embrace and take a few steps deeper into the warm, golden territory of your bedroom.
As you walk toward your closet, you can hear the heavy, deliberate thud of his sneakers right behind you. You glance over your shoulder and find Dean tracking your exact movements. The untouchable, arrogant hockey player, the guy who rules the ice and commands every room he walks into, is trailing after you with a soft, entirely captivated expression. He looks less like a campus playboy and more like an adoring puppy completely tethered to his owner, completely content to just exist in your shadow.
You bite your lower lip, a soft smile tugging at your mouth. “Dean, you're hovering. You're practically walking on my heels.”
Dean speaks unapologetic, a lazy, helpless smile on his face as he folds his arms over his chest, refusing to take a single step back. “Can't help it, sweetheart. I told you, I'm entirely ruined. You move, I move. It’s a biological reflex at this point.”
You turn to face your mirror, your face flushing a pretty, deep pink. The dress you wore for the date has a delicate, intricate set of satin ribbons that crisscross down the center of your back, holding the fabric together. You reach your hands behind your shoulder blades, your fingers fumbling blindly as you try to find the knot. But between the lingering adrenaline of your first kiss and your natural, messy-girl clumsiness, your fingers just end up tangling the silky fabric into a tighter knot.
You huffed in frustration, your shoulders dropping. “Oh, great. My hands are acting like little clubs again. I can't untie this! I’m going to have to sleep in this dress and cut myself out of it tomorrow with safety scissors.”
Dean lets out a low, rich chuckle that vibrates through the small room. He steps in closer, his massive chest pressing flush against your back, his familiar sandalwood and fresh air scent completely enveloping you.
He grabbed your wrists gently and lowering your hands away from your back. “Hey, stop torturing the fabric. Drop your hands, popstar. Let the professional handle it.”
You let your arms drop to your sides, looking at his reflection in the mirror as he positions himself behind you. His large, broad hands, the ones covered in hockey callouses and built for raw athletic power, look absolutely massive against the delicate, soft material of your dress. He bends his knees slightly, lowering his head so he can see the intricate knot, his brow furrowing in deep, intense concentration.
You watched his reflection, a sudden bubble of amusement rising in your throat. “Dean... are you sticking your tongue out?”
He muttered seriously, his fingers carefully picking apart the tight satin knot with unbelievable patience. “Shut up babe, I'm focusing. This is high-stakes engineering right here. One wrong pull and I ruin the prettiest dress on campus. I don't see Graham or Logan trying to solve a puzzle this complicated.”
The contrast is just too much, seeing Briar University's most feared left-winger treating a tiny, dainty dress ribbon like a piece of delicate bomb defusal is the most endearing thing you have ever witnessed.
A breathless, joyful giggle bursts from your lips, echoing softly in the quiet room. You cover your mouth with your hand, your shoulders shaking with mirth.
Dean lifted his eyes to the mirror, a devastatingly handsome, mock-offended smirk spreading across his lips. “Oh, you think my dedication is funny? I am giving you five-star luxury service here, lady.”
You giggled through your fingers, your eyes sparkling. “I’m sorry! It’s just... you look so fierce, like, your jaw is clenched and everything. You look like you're trying to win the Frozen Four, but you're just untying a bow.”
His gaze softening completely as he watches you laugh, his thumb gently brushing against the bare skin of your lower back as the knot finally gives way. “I told you... anything that involves you is high-stakes for me now... There, knot undone.”
The satin loops loosen smoothly under his fingers, the fabric of the dress parting just enough to expose the delicate line of your spine. Dean doesn't pull the dress down; instead, he keeps the fabric held up safely against your front, his touch entirely respectful, keeping your boundaries completely intact.
He leans down, his lips brushing softly against the sensitive skin at the crook of your neck, sending a massive wave of goosebumps cascading down your arms. You let out a soft, shaky breath, your eyes closing as you lean back against his solid chest.
Dean whispered against your skin, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you securely against his heart. “You have the best laugh in the world, you know that? I could listen to you giggle in this room for the rest of the night.”
You turn around slowly within the safe circle of his arms, holding the front of your dress up against your chest, your innocent, sweet eyes locking onto his intense blue ones. The lingering fear of being alone, the old anxieties of your past, completely shatter under the sheer weight of his devotion.
You whisper too, your heart full to the absolute brim. “I think I’m going to be laughing a lot more now that you're around, Dean.”
He leaned down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, his smile warm and brilliant. “Damn right you are. Now, go grab one of my big hoodies from your closet, because I know you kept at least three of them, and let’s get under the covers. I’m not leaving until you’re fast asleep.”
You nod happily, your inner nerdy girl completely at peace as you shuffle toward your drawer, wrapped in his warmth, his love, and the beautiful certainty that you will never have to face the dark alone again.
***
The soft rustle of the comforter settles as you slide under the heavy blankets, completely swallowed by one of Dean’s thick, oversized black hoodies. It smells heavily of him: comforting, warm, and utterly safe. A second later, the mattress dips significantly as Dean slides in right next to you. He doesn't hesitate for a fraction of a second; his long, muscular arms reach out, pulling you flush against his bare chest until you are completely wrapped in his embrace.
The room is quiet, illuminated only by the faint, amber glow of the fairy lights over your bed. For a few minutes, nobody speaks, Dean just holds you, his lips pressed softly against the top of your head, his fingers tracing slow, soothing patterns up and down your back through the heavy cotton of the hoodie.
Slowly, you tilt your head up to look at him and Dean shifts his gaze down, his intense blue eyes softening completely. He leans down and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your nose, then to your cheek, before finally finding your lips in a gentle, slow kiss that leaves you feeling beautifully warm from head to toe.
“You're going to spoil me, Di Laurentis.” you say whispering against his lips.
He rest his chin on top of your head, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. “That’s the whole point, popstar. You’ve been running on empty for way too long... It’s my job to fill the tank.”
The comfortable silence returns, but you can feel a subtle shift in the way Dean is holding you. His breathing is steady, but his fingers have stopped their lazy tracing. He’s gently twirling a strand of your sleep-tousled hair around his finger, his expression growing uncharacteristically pensive.
He speaks again, quietly, his eyes are staring at the faint lights on the wall. “Hey, sweetheart?”
You're nuzzling closer into the crook of his neck. “Yeah?”
Dean paused for a moment, his jaw tightening just a fraction before he speaks. “Can I ask you something? And you can tell me to shut the fuck up if it’s too much, but... it’s been bothering me since I found you on the quad a few weeks ago.”
You pull back just enough to look into his face, your innocent, sweet eyes wide with curiosity.
“Of course you can ask me anything, Dean. What is it?”
He brought his gaze down to meet yours, his expression completely stripped of his usual cocky armor, showing only raw, fierce protectiveness. “It's about Stuart. I know he’s a massive tool, and I know he made you feel like garbage when he cornered you. But... I need to understand. How was your relationship with him, really? Did he ever make you feel good? In any aspect? Because every time you talk about him, it sounds like you were living in a prison.”
You freeze slightly at his words, your fingers tensing against the fabric of his t-shirt. A familiar, protective wall of shyness tries to creep up your throat, making you want to look away, but Dean gently catches your chin with his thumb and forefinger, holding your gaze with absolute tenderness.
“Talk to me, popstar. I’m not asking to judge you. I'm asking because I want to know exactly what kind of damage I need to undo.” he whispered, his thumb brush slightly your lower lip.
You let out a long, shaky breath, your hands flattening against his broad chest, feeling the steady, calming beat of his heart.
Your voice is quiet, laced with a lingering, old vulnerability. “It wasn't... it wasn't a normal relationship, Dean. At least, I don't think it was... Stuart treated everything like an assignment, like a project he had to manage. He didn't really praise me or make me feel special... he just tolerated me. If I dropped something, or if I got too excited about a book, he’d just sigh and tell me to be more mature. I always felt like I was failing a test I didn't even know I was taking.”
Dean’s eyes darken with an icy, dangerous fury, his grip on your waist tightening just a fraction as he listens. “And... what about when it was just the two of you? When things were private. Did he ever make you feel desired? What about the intimacy, sweetheart? Did he at least had the decency to take care of you in bed?” he asked you.
Your cheeks instantly turn a bright, fiery crimson. You bury your face in his chest for a second, overwhelmed by the raw honesty of the question, but the sheer safety of Dean's arms gives you the courage to speak the truth. You lift your head, your voice dropping into an incredibly soft, hesitant whisper.
“No, not really. Intimacy with Stuart was... it was like everything else with him, it was clinical. He had a schedule for it. It was always on a Friday night, always with the lights completely off, and it was never about... passion. It was just a routine. He never asked me what I liked, or if I was comfortable. He just did what he wanted, and when it was over, he’d just turn over and go to sleep.” you swallow hard, a stray tear of old frustration threatening to spill over. “He made me feel like my body was just a box to check on his to-do list. I used to lie there in the dark afterward feeling so incredibly, horribly alone. It actually made me think that intimacy was just supposed to be boring and uncomfortable... He made me feel like I was broken because I didn't feel anything.”
A heavy, profound silence fills the room. For a long moment, Dean doesn't say a word. But you can feel the raw, vibrating energy of his anger radiating off his skin. His chest rises and falls in sharp, deep breaths, his knuckles turning white where he’s holding the comforter.
“Jesus Christ. I am going to find that guy, and I am going to absolutely destroy him.” he muttered under his breath, there's a dark edge to his voice.
You reached up, gently touching his jaw to soothe him. “Dean, it's okay. It’s in the past.”
Dean snapped instantly his gaze back to you, his eyes burning with an intensity that takes your breath away. “No, sweetheart, it is not okay. It makes my blood boil that some arrogant, selfish coward made you feel like you were a chore. You are the sweetest, most breathtakingly beautiful girl on this campus. Intimacy isn't supposed to be a clinical routine, it’s not a checklist.”
He shifts his weight, rolling over until he is hovering completely over you, his large hands coming up to cradle your face with an overwhelming, reverent gentleness. He looks down at you in the warm glow of the fairy lights, his voice thick with a profound, unyielding sincerity.
“When the time comes for us, popstar... it is going to be the exact opposite of everything he did to you. The lights are staying on, because I want to see every single expression on your face. There is no schedule, there is no rush, and every single second is going to be about making sure you know exactly how worshiped you are. I am going to spend hours finding out exactly what makes you gasp, what you like, what makes you smile, and I am going to make sure you never, ever feel alone in the dark again.”
Your heart leaps into your throat, your entire body trembling with a rush of pure, dizzying giddiness and emotional relief. The lingering shame Stuart had left behind completely evaporates under the scorching heat of Dean's words.
“Dean...” you whispered, your eyes are swimming with happy tears.
He leaned, his lips brushing against yours with a tenderness that makes your soul ache. “I mean it, sunshine... Every single word. You’re not broken, he was just too stupid to realize what he had. But I know exactly what I have right here.”
He closes the final distance, catching your lips in a deep, slow, profoundly emotional kiss. It’s a promise, sealed in the quiet safety of your room, erasing the old shadows and replacing them with a brilliant, golden light that belongs entirely to the two of you.
***
The transition from autumn to winter has turned the campus air biting and sharp. The trees are completely bare, their dark branches skeletal against a heavy, slate-grey sky. Students are hurried, wrapped tightly in heavy wool coats and thick scarves as they rush between heated brick buildings to escape the incoming chill.
Walking down the wide stone path leading away from the athletic complex is the familiar front line of the Briar hockey team: Dean, Garrett, Tucker, and Logan are walking shoulder to shoulder, their massive frames packed into dark team jackets. The mood among them is steady, focused on the upcoming winter tournament, their breath turning to white mist in the freezing air.
Logan shivers slightly, pulling his beanie lower over his ears. “I swear, if the temperature drops another five degrees, I’m personally moving my bed into the locker room with the heater on. I mean, the heating in our house is completely ancient.”
Garrett laughed, slinging his gear bag over his shoulder. “Oh, stop complaining Logan. It builds character! Besides, Tucker’s keeping the kitchen at a permanent eighty degrees with all that holiday baking.”
Dean doesn't join in on the casual ribbing, his hands are buried deep in his jacket pockets, his sharp jawline set as his eyes scan the path ahead. He's been thinking about you all morning, counting down the hours until he can slide back into your dorm room, pull you into his arms, and let the rest of the world fade away.
But as they approach the crowded courtyard near the student union, the easy momentum of the group grinds to a sudden, jarring halt.
Coming from the opposite direction is Stuart and three of his fraternity brothers, because somehow he's in a fraternity, Stuart is wearing a pristine, expensive wool coat, a smug, untouchable smirk plastered across his face as he talks loudly to his friends.
Months have passed since he cornered you in the quad, and because he was never publicly put in his place, his arrogance has only grown. He still thinks he's the smartest, most dominant guy on campus.
And the second his eyes lock onto Dean and the hockey players, his smirk turns malicious.
Instead of walking past on the wide path, Stuart intentionally alters his stride, stepping directly into the center of the walkway, forcing Dean to either stop or collide with him. Dean stops, his blue eyes instantly locking onto Stuart with a freezing, dangerous stillness.
Behind Dean, Garrett, Tucker, and Logan immediately square their broad shoulders, their casual expressions vanishing as their lethal, on-ice instincts take over.
Stuart stopped two feet away, hands casually in his coat pockets, looking Dean up and down with an insulting, patronizing sneer. “Di Laurentis! Still trailing around campus in a pack, I see. Tell me, do you guys do everything together, or do you occasionally allow your little girlfriend to have a thought of her own?”
One of Stuart’s friends lets out a low, goading chuckle. Stuart steps closer, entirely miscalculating the situation, believing that because they are in a public campus space, the hockey players won't risk their athletic scholarships by making a scene.
He leaned in, his voice dripping with venomous provocation. “Honestly, I don't know what you think you're protecting! She’s fragile, she’s clumsy, and she’s completely out of her depth at a school like this. I gave her structure, and the second I let her go, she runs straight to a brainless jock who uses a stick for a living. You’re just a temporary distraction for her, Dean... A phase before she realizes she needs a real man with a real future.”
The air in the courtyard goes completely, terrifyingly dead. Tucker’s jaw clenches so hard a muscle jumps in his cheek, Logan steps to the side, positioning himself to block Stuart’s friends from intervening, while Garrett’s eyes darken into slits.
They are waiting for the word, they are waiting for Dean to give the signal... But Dean stands perfectly still for exactly three seconds, he doesn't yell, he doesn't trade petty insults. Slowly, deliberately, he takes his hands out of his pockets. He unzips his team jacket, tossing it back toward Garrett, who catches it without a word. When Dean looks back at Stuart, his blue eyes are completely stripped of humanity.
Dean's voice an incredibly low, gravelly whisper that cuts through the wind like a razor. “I’ve been incredibly patient with you, Stuart. I let you walk away the last time you put your hands near her, because I wasn't close to her at that moment, but you just crossed a line you can’t uncross.”
Stuart is trying to maintain his smug composure, though a flicker of genuine panic passes through his eyes as he takes a step back. “What, you think you can threaten me, Di Laurentis? In broad daylight? Go ahead, hit me. Let’s see what the athletic board thinks about-” Stuart never gets to finish the sentence.
Dean steps forward with blinding, explosive speed. His large, calloused hand shoots out, grabbing the thick wool collar of Stuart’s expensive coat and twisting the fabric, completely cutting off his air. With a single, effortless display of raw athletic power, Dean hauls Stuart forward, throwing him violently against the brick wall of the student union building.
The heavy, hollow thud of Stuart’s back slamming into the brick echoes across the courtyard, instantly drawing the attention of dozens of nearby students.
Stuart’s friends instantly try to surge forward to help him, but they are met by a solid wall of muscle. Garrett and Logan step directly into their path, their massive chests blocking them completely, their expressions terrifyingly calm.
Garrett pointed a heavy, warning finger at Stuart’s friends. “Stay exactly where you are if you want to keep all your teeth, this is private legal counsel.”
Meanwhile, Dean has Stuart pinned completely against the brick. Stuart is gasping for air, his hands frantically clawing at Dean’s iron grip on his collar, his face turning a panicked, mottled red.
Dean leaned in so close his breath fogs Stuart’s vision, his voice a dark, murderous growl. “You think because you study books all day you understand how the world works? You think you can use her name to try and make yourself look big in front of your little friends?”
Dean releases his grip on the collar for a split second, only to bring his fist back and drive a devastating, heavy punch straight into Stuart’s midsection. The breath is violently ripped from Stuart’s lungs. He lets out a strangled, pathetic gasp, his knees instantly buckling beneath him as he collapses into the dirt and slush at the base of the brick wall. He curls into a tight, pathetic ball, clutching his ribs, tears of shock and agonizing pain pricking his eyes.
Dean doesn't stop, he reaches down, grabs Stuart by the front of his shirt, and hauls him back up to his knees, forcing him to look up. Dean delivers a brutal, sharp open-handed strike across Stuart’s jaw, a sound like a whip cracking in the quiet afternoon. Stuart’s head snaps back, his lip instantly splitting open, a thin trickle of dark red running down his chin.
Dean's shouting now, his fury completely unchained, his grip on Stuart’s shirt shaking with rage. “She is a thousand times better than you will ever deserve to look at! You treated her like garbage, a chore, you made her feel small, and you think you can stand on my path and disrespect her? I will absolutely destroy you, do you hear me?!”
Dean drops Stuart back into the dirt like a piece of worthless trash, Stuart lies there, trembling violently, his pristine coat covered in mud and slush, his hands cradling his bleeding lip as he whimpers in the cold air. The crowd of students watching from the edges of the quad is completely silent, nobody daring to take a single step toward the fury of the hockey captain.
Dean stands directly over him, his chest heaving in sharp, deep breaths, his knuckles slightly bruised but completely steady. He looks down at Stuart with an expression of cold, absolute disgust, completely stripping him of any remaining dignity.
Dean pointed down at Stuart’s face, his voice carrying an unyielding, terrifying authority across the entire courtyard. “Listen to me very carefully, you pathetic coward... If I see you within fifty yards of her dorm building, if I see you look at her in the library, or if I even hear that you breathed her name to anyone on this campus... I am not going to use my hands next time. I will personally make sure you are carried off this campus in an ambulance. Do you understand me?”
Stuart nods frantically through his tears, his body shaking with a mix of intense physical pain and absolute, paralyzing terror. He has been completely, thoroughly broken.
Dean turns away from him with absolute indifference, he walks back to the guys, and Garrett hands him his team jacket. Dean slides it smoothly back over his broad shoulders, his breathing slowly returning to a controlled, calm rhythm.
Dean is looking at Logan and Tucker, his eyes finally losing that murderous edge as he thinks of your safe, warm room. “Let's go, guys. I’m done wasting my time on garbage... Let's go to practice.”
The four athletes turn as one, their broad shoulders cutting through the parting crowd of stunned students, leaving Stuart bleeding and shivering in the dirt behind them. As they walk away, the heavy shadow of your past is officially, physically obliterated, replaced entirely by the fierce, protective love of the boy who will tear down the world before he lets anyone hurt you again.
***
The heavy, metallic tang of sweat, wet leather, and skate tape hangs thick in the humid air of the locker room. The low, rhythmic thud of hockey pads hitting wooden benches echoes through the space as the team unwinds after a brutal, two-hour skating practice. Usually, the room is a chaotic symphony of shouting, blasting rap music, and flying rolls of tape.
Tonight, the volume is dialed down significantly, because the boys are moving quietly, casting frequent, guarded glances toward the far corner of the room. Dean sits on the bench, his jersey pulled down to his waist, exposing his broad, damp chest, he is methodically unlacing his skates, his jaw set in a rigid, unyielding line. His knuckles are slightly raw, a faint purple bruise blooming across his right hand, a physical souvenir from the afternoon's encounter in the quad.
Garrett and Tucker are sitting on either side of him, acting as a silent, imposing wall of security while Logan takes a shower. Nobody on the freshman line dares to even look in Dean's direction, everyone on campus has already heard about what happened to Stuart.
The heavy steel door at the front of the locker room suddenly swings open with a loud, echoey clang. The chatter in the room instantly dies out completely.
Coach Jensen steps into the room. He’s dressed in his official Briar Hockey tracksuit, a silver whistle hanging around his neck, and a clipboard tucked tightly under his arm. His weathered, stern face is completely unreadable, his eyes scanning the room until they lock directly onto his star player and team captain.
His voice cutting through the quiet room like an air horn. “Di Laurentis... My office, right now. The rest of you, hit the showers and get out of my sight.”
Dean stands up without a word, he doesn't look at Garrett or Tucker, who both offer a brief, supportive nod. He walks down the narrow hallway, his bare feet slapping against the cold rubber flooring, and steps inside the coach's office.
The room is small, smelling heavily of stale coffee and industrial floor cleaner.
The walls are covered in framed championship photos, bracket sheets, and whiteboards covered in scribbled power-play drills. Coach Jensen walks in behind him, slamming the heavy door shut, and slides into the leather chair behind his desk. He doesn't tell Dean to sit.
Dean stands completely straight, his shoulders squared, his chin lifted. He looks less like a caught student and more like a soldier prepared to defend his position.
Coach Jensen leaned back, crossing his arms, his eyes drilling into Dean. “Do you want to tell me why the dean of student affairs called my personal cell phone three hours ago, Dean? Because from where I’m sitting, it sounds like one of my starting players decided to use the main campus quad as a personal boxing ring.”
Dean's voice is low, a steady, gravelly rumble. “Stuart provoked the team, Coach. He was looking for a reaction, and he got one.”
Coach Jensen slimmed his fist down onto the desk, the wooden surface rattling. “Don't give me that lawyer talk, Di Laurentis! You didn't just give him a reaction. You threw another pre-law student against a brick wall and split his face open in broad daylight! There were fifty witnesses! Half the student union saw one of the top players of the hockey team absolutely dismantle a guy who doesn't even weigh a hundred and seventy pounds!”
The reminder of Stuart’s face doesn't make Dean flinch. If anything, the icy blue in his eyes deepens, his chest expanding as he takes a deep, controlled breath.
Dean stepped closer to the desk, his voice dropping into a dangerous, deadly quiet register. “He was talking about her, Coach. He was standing in the middle of the path, loudly broadcasting misogynistic garbage about the girl I love to his friends. He called her broken, he bragged about manipulating her. I let him walk away months ago when he cornered her, but I am not going to stand by and let a pathetic, bitter coward drag her name through the mud just to soothe his own ego.”
Coach Jensen freezes, his furious expression faltering for a fraction of a second. He has known Dean for years; he knows about Dean’s old reputation as a detached, carefree playboy who never let anyone get close enough to matter. Seeing his player stand here, completely ready to throw away his athletic career to defend a girl’s honor, catches the older man completely off guard.
Coach Jensen let out a long, heavy sigh, rubbing his temples in frustration. “Jesus Christ, Dean... I know the guy is a tool. The whole athletic department knows he’s a toxic prick, but you are part of this team! You represent Briar Hockey! If the administration decides to press charges or issue an academic suspension, you are off the ice for the winter tournament. Do you understand the kind of jeopardy you just put this entire program in?”
Dean's jaw is clenching, his voice fierce and unyielding. “With all due respect, Coach, some things are more important than a hockey game. If someone insults my team on the ice, I drop my gloves. If someone tries to humiliate and degrade the most innocent, brilliant girl on this campus, the girl who is the only reason I’m even focusing on my future right now, I am going to end them. I don't care about the optics, I’d do it again right now.”
A heavy, suffocating silence fills the small office. Coach Jensen stares at Dean for a long, agonizing minute, measuring the absolute, immovable determination in the boy's eyes.
Finally, the coach lets out a rough, breathy chuckle, shaking his head as he reaches for a mug of cold coffee. “Look... from a man’s perspective? I respect what you did. A real man doesn't let anyone talk about his woman like that. Stuart deserved exactly what he got, and frankly, I’m glad someone finally closed his mouth.” he pauses, his expression instantly snapping back into a stern, authoritative scowl. “But as your coach? You are in deep, deep trouble, Di Laurentis. The athletic board is furious, and the only reason you aren't currently sitting in a campus security holding cell is because Garrett’s dad called the dean of students and threatened a massive legal counter-suit for harassment based on Stuart's past behavior toward your girl.”
Dean’s shoulders drop just a fraction, a wave of relief washing through him at the mention of Phil Graham's intervention.
Coach Jensen pointed a stern finger at Dean's chest. “Here is how this goes down... You are on official team probation for the next three weeks, that means extra conditioning after every single practice. You are going to skate lines until your lungs burn, Dean. You are going to do ten hours of community service at the local youth rink, and if you so much as breathe in Stuart’s direction for the rest of the semester, I will personally strip that 'A' off your jersey and bench you for the finals. Do we have an understanding?”
Dean nodded firmly, a small, grateful smile finally breaking through his tense expression. “Yes, Coach. Loud and clear, thank you.”
Coach Jensen dismissed him with a wave of his hand, turning back to his clipboard. “Get out of here, kid. Go get showered, go get your girl, and keep your hands to yourself out in public. I don't want to hear your name on the campus radio unless it’s because you scored a hat trick.”
Dean turns and walks out of the office, closing the glass door behind him. The moment he hits the hallway, the tight, suffocating pressure in his chest completely evaporates. He doesn't care about the extra lines, the burning lungs, or the community service. It was worth every single second.
He walks back into the now-empty locker room, throwing his wet gear into his duffel bag and hopping into the hot shower. As the steaming water washes away the sweat of practice and the residual adrenaline of the day, his mind completely shifts away from the ice, away from the coach, and away from Stuart.
He checks his phone the second he’s dressed, seeing a sweet, simple text from you asking if he wants to come over to study. A brilliant, incredibly happy grin spreads across his handsome face. He slings his heavy bag over his shoulder and walks out into the cold winter night, heading straight toward your dorm room, ready to slide into the safe, warm sanctuary of your arms and let the rest of the world completely disappear.
***
The quiet safety of your room is illuminated by the familiar, soft golden glow of the fairy lights. Outside, the winter wind rattles faintly against the windowpane, but inside, the heater hums a steady, comforting rhythm. You are sitting cross-legged on your bed, a textbook open on your lap, but your eyes haven't actually read a single line in thirty minutes.
Suddenly, a heavy, familiar, rhythmic knock echoes against the wood of your door.
Your heart does a violent, frantic skip against your ribs. You throw the textbook aside, slide off the mattress, and practically sprint across the carpet.
The moment you unlock the door and pull it open, the cold air of the hallway rushes in, carrying with it the intoxicating, unmistakable scent of crisp winter air, a fresh shower, and a heavy undertone of sandalwood. It's Dean, he’s standing in the doorway, his massive frame clad in a heavy black Briar Hockey hooded sweatshirt and dark sweatpants. His oversized gear bag is slung over one broad shoulder, looking incredibly heavy. His thick hair is still slightly damp from the post-practice shower, curling lazily at the nape of his neck. He looks physically exhausted, the sharp lines of his jaw tight, but the absolute second his intense blue eyes land on your face, his entire posture visibly melts.
He drops his heavy duffel bag onto the floor with a loud, hollow thud, steps across the threshold, and slams the door shut behind him. Before you can even utter a single syllable, his long arms reach out, wrapping securely around your waist, and he hauls your body flush against his broad, solid chest.
Dean buries his face deeply into the crook of your neck, letting out a long, ragged, incredibly heavy sigh that vibrates right through your collarbone. He holds you with a desperate, possessive tight grip, as if he’s verifying that you are actually here, safe and untouched in his arms. Your hands automatically slide up his back, your fingers curling tightly into the soft cotton of his hoodie as you hold him right back, breathing him in.
You're whispering softly into his shoulder, your heart's swelling with an intense, dizzying warmth. “Dean... you're squeezing me so tight I can barely breathe, honey.”
He muttered sleepily against your skin, his voice an incredibly deep, gravelly rumble. “Just give me a second, baby. Just let me hold you like this. Today was... it was a lot, I just needed to get back to my sanctuary.”
You let him hold you for a long, quiet minute, the silence of the room wrapping around the two of you like a shield. Slowly, gently, you pull your head back just enough to look up into his handsome face. In the warm amber light, you can see the faint exhaustion shadowing his eyes. But as your gaze travels down, your breath catches sharply in your throat.
You reach out, your smaller, delicate fingers gently capturing his right hand. Across his knuckles, the skin is raw, scraped, and a deep, angry purple bruise is blooming heavily across the bone, it is the physical proof of the punches he landed on Stuart's jaw this afternoon.
Your voice trembling slightly with a mix of shyness and deep, aching concern, your thumb lightly brushing the edge of the bruise. “Oh, Dean... your hand, it looks so painful. Does it hurt bad?”
He looked down at your hands, a lazy, incredibly tender smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he captures your fingers, bringing your palm to his mouth to press a soft, lingering kiss right in the center. “I didn't even feel it, sunshine. Trust me, the guy's jaw was remarkably soft. It was worth every single scratch.”
You guide him slowly toward your desk chair, your brows furrowing with anxiety. “Sit down, please. Tell me what happened... Dean, I’ve been worried sick for hours. Are you in trouble with the athletic board?”
Dean doesn't sit in the desk chair, instead, he completely ignores it, sinking his massive frame onto the edge of your twin bed. He hooks his hands around your waist and effortlessly guides you down until you are sitting sideways right on his lap, your legs draping over his thighs. He locks his arms around you, trapping you in his warmth, and rests his chin on your shoulder.
He let out a breathy chuckle, his blue eyes staring straight ahead as he recaps the meeting. “Jensen called me into the glass cage right after we took our skates off. The dean of student affairs had been breathing down his neck all afternoon because Stuart’s little fraternity buddies tried to make a massive academic case out of it. Coach was furious, he slammed his fist down, yelled a lot, gave me the whole spiel about representing Briar Hockey and the optics of the program.”
Your fingers are anxiously tightening on the fabric of his sleeve, your voice small. “And? What did he say? Are you suspended?”
He shakes his head, his chest expanding in a deep breath against your back. “No, I’m not suspended, we actually got a massive break on that front. Garrett’s dad, Phil Graham, found out about the situation and called the university administration immediately. He threatened a massive, multi-million dollar harassment countersuit against the school and against Stuart based on the documentation of how Stuart cornered you in the quad months ago. The school panicked, so they dropped the suspension entirely.”
You let out a massive, breathless sigh of relief, your forehead resting against his temple.
“But... Jensen couldn't just let me walk away completely free. The athletic board demanded a punishment. So, the coach handed down the official team sanction, I’m on official probation for the next three weeks. Starting tomorrow, I have extra conditioning after every single practice, it means I’m skating suicide lines until my lungs burn and I can barely stand up. On top of that, I have to do ten hours of community service volunteering with the little kids at the local youth rink on weekends.”
A heavy wave of sudden guilt washes over your chest. You look at his bruised knuckles, think about him skating extra lines until he's exhausted, all because he chose to stand up and destroy the shadow of your past in front of the entire campus.
You whispered shyly, your eyes swimming with sudden, happy but emotional tears. “Dean... I am so sorry, this is all because of me. If you hadn't been walking with me, if you hadn't protected me from him, you wouldn't be on probation, you wouldn't have to risk your position at the team.”
Dean freezes. Slowly, he pulls his head back, his hands moving up from your waist to firmly cup your face. He forces your innocent, wide eyes to look directly into his burning blue ones. The sheer, unyielding devotion in his gaze is so intense it completely strips your throat of words.
His voice dropping into a fierce, raspy, unshakeable whisper. “Listen to me very carefully, popstar. Don't you dare say you're sorry, don't you dare think for a single second that this is a burden to me. Jensen told me he'd strip the 'A' off my jersey if I look at Stuart again. And you know what I told him? I told him I didn't care about the hockey game, I told him that some things are more important than a championship.”
He leans in closer, his forehead resting firmly against yours, his thumbs gently wiping away a stray tear before it can even fall down your cheek.
“I would skate lines until my legs literally fell off, sunshine, I would do a thousand hours of community service, and I would drop my gloves and fight every single guy on that law bench before I ever stand by and let a pathetic coward try to make you feel small. You are the most perfect, brilliant thing in my life. Protecting your name isn't a punishment, it’s the easiest choice I’ve ever made.”
The sheer, breathtaking honesty of his words completely shatters the last remaining walls of your shyness. A brilliant, radiant smile breaks across your face through your tears. You slide your arms fully around his neck, burying your face in his hair as you giggle softly, the intense giddiness and relief finally spilling over.
Dean lets out a low, rich, deeply content chuckle, shifting his weight to pull you down onto the mattress with him. He tucks you securely under the heavy comforter, locking his massive arms around you and pinning your hoodie-clad body directly against his chest. Inside the golden, safe circle of his embrace, the coldness of the campus and the stress of the team sanctions completely cease to exist, entirely replaced by the steady, unyielding heartbeat of the boy who chose you above everything else.
Summary: During a heated argument, you lash out and tell Dean he’s no better than John.
PAIRING: Dean Winchester x GN!Reader (Can be read as either platonic or romantic)
GENRE: Angst, Fluff
TO NOTE/WARNINGS: Established Relationship or Friendship (whatever floats your boat), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Arguing, Dean Winchester Has Daddy Issues, John Winchester’s A+ Parenting, One Slightly Suggestive Remark That’s Meant To Be Teasing
WORD COUNT: 3,235
A/N: Inspired by Radiohead’s Sulk. You won’t believe my AO3 author’s curse. Being sick and having a messed up sleep schedule has its benefits, though: I write fics to distract myself from the pain, lol! My eternal gratitude to @flanneledfae, my favorite Bet(s)a Reader! ❤️
CREDIT & LINKS: Dividers — Ao3 — Supernatural Masterlist — Main Masterlist
The moment the words leave your mouth, you regret it. And just like that, woosh, the fire dies — no more heated arguments, no more angry shouting. Just a second ago, you were going toe to toe, butting heads, back and forth on who was too reckless during the last hunt, who was the bigger coward. On who is in the right and who is in the wrong.
You called Dean stubborn, hated how he rolled his eyes, hated that he never takes you seriously when you stand up for yourself. So you gave him something to chew on, deliberately picking a weapon you know would sting him. A textbook low blow.
‘You sound just like your father!’
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.
misspossesive!reader who has to have her hand on dean at all times when they go out together. she tells him that it's for her 'safety' and good conscious knowing full well what's she's really doing it for. to lay claim on him. even if it's just from holding his hand, wrapping her arm around his, or standing between his legs and running her nails through his hair at the bar.
misspossesive!reader who wouldn't hesitate to beat a bitch up for looking at her man. she's no townie. she's a city bitch with a real knack for right hooks. once, she threatened some girl outside the bar trying to flirt with dean using a broken beer bottle.
misspossesive!reader who gets whatever she wants. she's got dean wrapped around her finger. and he wants to be no where else other than her arms. so, it doesn't matter to him if she's asking for fun drinks and clothes that cost him an arm and a leg.
misspossesive!reader who leaves marks on dean. his neck is littered with hickeys like he's a teenage boy. the marks range from light purple to dark blue and green, all painted onto his skin.
misspossesive!reader who's kind of a crazy bitch. she's tossed Dean's phone into the fire after thinking he might have gotten some girls number on it. hell, after one of the times they broke up she etched her name into dean's front seat. and whenever the two of them are in a fight, she's quick to whip something at his head. though she always misses.
misspossesive!reader who's also incredibly protective over sam. she knows that dean and sam are a package deal, where one goes so does the other. unless they're fighting. but that's when she steps in: either locking the two of them in a room or threatening to handcuff the top of them together until they get their heads "out of 'ya asses!"
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summary: you borrow one of dean's shirts. he feels a little... flustered.
word count: 743
pairing: dean winchester x reader
⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧
Wearing Dean's clothes isn't becoming a thing. You swear.
You’re just cold, and the motels broken thermostat feels like it’s set to “meat locker”. You’re curled up on the dining table chair with your laptop sitting on the table, blanket draped over you. Dean exits the bathroom, flicking the light off and shutting the door behind him. He looks over at you gently, noticing you’re visibly shaking.
“Hold on. I’ve got something better than that.”
That something turns out to be one of his flannels. A dark green, plaid shirt. Soft from years of wear. He tosses it at you with a grin like he’s being chivalrous, like it’s just a shirt.
You don’t think anything of it.
But Dean? Oh, he’s flustered.
His cheeks turn a shade of pink, like his entire brain short-circuits. He stares at you as if a divine revelation struck him. Like the clouds have parted and you just descended from heaven, wearing his shirt and lip balm.
You pull it on. It’s huge on you, the sleeves hanging off of your wrists, hem falling mid-thigh. But it’s warm, and it’s comfortable. It makes you feel… weirdly safe.
He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, stiff as a board, pretending to be invested in whatever rerun is on the TV. His jaw is tight.
“You good over there?” You ask.
“Yup.” He doesn’t look at you. “Totally fine.” Dean’s voice cracks a little.
You smirk. “You sure? You’re blushing like you’ve just seen your first bra ad.”
Dean huffs a laugh, finally turning to you. A flustered little twitch that appears at the corner of his mouth, the one that only happens when you get under his skin.
“I just… don’t usually let people borrow my stuff,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Especially not, y’know, girls.”
Your heart skips a beat. “Oh?”
He tries to shrug it off, his eyes flicking up to you then immediately away. “You look good in it. That’s all.”
You freeze.
And he definitely realises what he just said because his eyes go wide. “I mean, not like—not in a weird way, I just meant… y’know, you wear it well, like, you make it look comfortable… I’m gonna shut up now.”
You bite back the biggest smile. “Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“You can breathe, y’know.”
He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “This is why I don’t do the whole lending-clothes thing. Now I’m just… picturing you in it.”
You gesture to yourself. “You are picturing me in it. I’m wearing it right now.”
He groans again, collapsing back on the bed dramatically.
There’s a quiet moment between you both. You shuffle off of the chair, and move over to him on the bed. He stiffens a little when your shoulder meets his as you lay beside him.
“You can have the shirt back. I won’t keep it.”
“No,” he replies quickly. Too quickly. “Keep it. It’s just strange. I’m not used to it.”
“Used to what?”
“You. Wearing my stuff. It’s… new.”
“You literally handed it to me.” You huff a laugh. He glances at you. “Yeah, well, I didn’t think it’d hit me like a truck.” He mutters, a little sheepish.
You keep your eyes on him. He’s avoiding all eye contact as he continues to burn a hole in the ceiling. “It’s just a shirt, Dean.”
“It’s mine,” he says, finally looking at you. “And it’s on you.”
Something about the way he says that makes your heart thud a little. It’s not about the shirt. Clearly. It’s about the fact that he gave you something that mattered, and watching you wear it makes something soft and unspoken arise in his throat.
“You can keep it.” He exhales. “But I don’t wanna just keep your shirt, Dean,” you begin, “I wanna keep being the one you give things to. The one you think of.”
His mouth parts slightly, and no words come out. Just a breath, like you’ve taken something heavy out of his hands.
He stares at you for a second longer, then nods slowly. “Okay.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he says again, softer. “You already are, y’know. The one I think of.”
It’s not a confession, but it’s honest. It’s enough.
You sit beside him on the bed, your shoulders touching. You graze your knuckles against his, taking his hand in yours.
the harsh water pelts dean's back, the splash lightly spraying your face, yet it's the steam that suffocates you. the tile wall is cold to the touch, but it isn't the reason you arch off it. your nails dig into his shoulders as he fucks into you, your legs struggling to stay wrapped around his hips. the shower cushions the echo of skin clapping together, but your teeth sink into your bottom lip to keep from moaning too loud. too exhausted to drive back to the bunker in filth, the three of you had rented a room for the night. sammy was in the other room, waiting patiently for his turn to clean up. he wasn't dumb; he knew exactly what you two were doing, especially when neither of you was as quiet as you thought. he heard every thud against the wall, every wet, squelching stroke, every fallen moan and groan you two shared. he rolled his eyes when he heard it begin, but now, after 10 constant minutes, he was annoyed. whimpers fall from your mouth, and your eyes squeeze shut, taking each slam of his hips. dean’s body presses flush into yours, keeping you still as he moves one of his hands that holds you upright to your clit. he rubs your button in harsh circles, eliciting sharp toe-curling sensations throughout your body. you’re so close you can taste it, and the way your breath hitches, dean knows too. the tight rope in your belly loosens with every thrust, and when it finally snaps, a straggled moan escapes ever so loudly. he unlatches his mouth from your throat and smashes his lips against yours, catching all of your cries.
BOOM, BOOM, BOOM!
the sudden action startles you both, almost causing dean to slip, and you to hush with a gasp. your heart no longer beats fast from your climax, but from sam's abrupt pounding.
"there better be hot water left!" he calls from behind the door.
"yeah, yeah. we're getting out now." dean replies, his tone underlined with agitation.
he was right behind you, but his brother had to go and ruin it. he wasn't leaving the bathroom until he filled you to the rim, making you wetter than the water that ran between and over your bodies. his hips resume their pattern, now working overtime to compensate for sam's interruption. he moves his hand away from your sensitive nub and cradles the back of your head, pulling you closer so he can kiss you deeper. his tongue dances with yours, and you devour his groans as you gently pull on his drenched hair.
"you know i can hear you, right?" the youngest winchester scoffs.
dean hammers you into the shower wall, slowly pulling another orgasm out of you. somewhere between pure bliss and common courtesy, you make a mental note to apologize to sam later. dean, on the other hand, promises to do the opposite.
tags and warnings: another dean drabble. fluff, angst, unspoken romance, TOUCH STARVED!DEAN (my baby) dean feeling undeserving, you feeling otherwise.
summary: cleaning up dean after a hunt leads to a side of him you had never experienced before.
The motel room reeked of antiseptic and exhaustion.
A pale bulb swung from the ceiling, casting its weak light over the cracked linoleum floor and a man who refused to sit still.
"Dean," you warned, clutching the first aid kit in one hand and a damp cloth in the other. "Stop moving."
"I'm fine," he muttered, jaw tight as his green eyes darted anywhere but at you. Blood streaked his cheek, smeared and half-dried, blending into the stubble along his jaw. Neither of you sure if it was his or someone else's.
"You're not fine," you snapped, more forcefully than you'd intended. You softened your tone, getting closer. "Just let me help, okay?"
"I've had worse, this'll heal on its own." He smirked, but held a weariness in his eyes.
"Yeah? And what's your plan for the dried blood? Gonna wear it like a badge of honor?" You fire back.
He huffed a laugh, but when you reached out, he didn't pull away. Instead, he let you stand between his knees, close enough to feel the heat of him, close enough to notice the way his breath hitched as your fingers brushed his chin.
"Hold still," your murmured, your voice softening as you tilted his head towards the light.
Dean's gaze flicked up to you, and you could feel the intensity of his eyes even though you focused on cleaning the blood from his face. His expression was unguarded, vulnerable in a way he rarely let himself be.
"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.
"Thank you." His lips twitched, almost a smile. He didn't let you go however, he pulled you back in. The two of you stayed like this for longer than you could remember, but for him you'd stay like this forever. Just close enough to him.