#dean headcanons

“That doesn’t mean anything,” he grunted, catching your hand and pressing a kiss to your wrist, and you raised your brows.

“I think it means I like it, dummy.”

And that had made him falter. He’d looked at you like he wasn’t sure to trust it. And you knew he didn’t. He’d spent too long, thinking comfort was the one sin he wasn’t allowed to afford. So you’d just kept smiling. You kissed him deeply, and he melted, cupping your face and rolling you over with a satisfied half-grunt.

Maybe he was getting old. With the gain of a real grocery store down the street, he’d turned into a little of an obsessive housewife in the kitchen, and you were being served new dishes every single night. Without the hunting, he gained a little weight, but the mechanic work meant he gained muscle with it. You catch him frowning at the mirror after a shower, and you’re sure a part of him doesn’t recognize the man across the sink.

But you do. It’s the same man you loved when he was sharp and rough like sandpaper. The same man who’s heart you had to spend years unwrapping from the barbed wire, who you loved with every sting and groveling apology and mistake. He seems to think you’re going to leave, now that he’s gone all fuckin’ soft.

You just count it as a long winter that’s thawed. A spring that took a while to bloom, and now, a rich, eternal summer. And you’re not about to run, right when you can start reaping your rewards.

He feeds you better than you’ve ever fed yourself. He holds your hand in the house, like he’s trying to put some claim on you over the walls. He laughs loudly at stupid parties you have to attended, and charms all your neighbors, and stares at babies and cribs when he thinks you’re not looking, his fingers digging into your hip with a quiet, long buried longing.

The nightmares still come, but he slowly talks about what he can. He doesn’t go to therapy—that was a long shot anyway—but he lets you drag him to the doctor, and takes his stupid heart meds with a grumble and kiss of your forehead, as if you’re the only reason he’s bothering to keep himself upright and kicking. He makes friends that aren’t his brother, and doesn’t even fight with Sam anymore. He drinks a little less and drives a little slower. He knocks out watching TV, but still manages to wake up long enough to carry you to bed.

And bed alone is a reason to love him like this, just a little extra. A sliver that grows from the everything about his handsome, gentle face being inches from yours, the scent of his evergreen aftershave surrounding you better than any drug, massive, calloused hands tracing over your body like, even after all this time, he still finds himself awestruck at your beauty.

“My girl,” he rasps against your lips, and you believe it.

You believe it with the way you’re all but consumed by him, drowning you in his weight and heat. Thick biceps keep your legs shoved apart when he buried his face against your drooling pussy, his beard scraping and tickling your inner thighs. His tongue works you open and flicks against your clit. You tug his hair with a whimpering pleas, and he moans, deep and rich and hungry. Your eyes roll back in your head, the vibration against your cunt almost too much before you’re coming apart on his face, and he doesn’t let up until you’re trembling and gasping for air.

Dean kisses you with your arousal still clinging to his beard, and sinks into your cunt with low, strained growl of need. You hug him tight, barely able to do anything but take it. The girth and size of him was always right on the better side of too much. Now, with the extra strength, you fall into a mess with barely a few strokes. Dean handles you like a doll, flipping you onto your stomach and dragging your ass up in the air, folding his body over yours and kissing your open, gaping mouth.

“So fuckin’ perfect, baby,” he grunts, cock drilling into that gooey, needy spot with every stroke. “Takin’ it so good f’ me, my sweet girl-“

“De- Deean-“ You whine. “Please- Need to cum- Need it so bad-“

Dean grabs your neck with one hand and turns your head, kissing you deep and messy. He splays his hand over your tummy, pressing up into where his dick is splitting you in half, and the extra pressure is too much to bear. You cum with a scream, and Dean buries himself deep inside you with a low, rough groan. Sticky ropes of cum paint over your walls, your thighs, the mattress as it dribbles out of your over-stuffed cunt.

Dean kisses you slowly, in no rush to clean, in no rush to move. He rolls onto his back and you curl into his side, fitting against him perfectly and blinking up at him with worshipful, glossy eyes. He swallows, brushes the hair from your brow, and takes your chin between his fingers. He tips it up and kisses you slowly, savoring every time, satisfied hum from your lips.

Sometimes he still thinks he doesn’t deserve this, but he’s certain that you do. And if you’re happy with him like this—bigger and mushy and comfortable—then you can’t possibly be wrong. For the first time in his life, he really has all the time in the world. And he doesn’t plan to waste a second of it. Not when he has you.

✦Dean Masterlist - Main Masterlist - read on AO3!✦

✦Author's Note: request! i would give him such a happy lifeeee put me in coach✦

every single girl that’s ever left his motel room that you’ve seen has had a smile on their face that could light up a small country—and obviously, that didn’t come from not doing a good job of dicking down a woman.

you should’ve known he’d be just as good at the aftercare, too. you really should've.

and sure, you wondered what it would be like, to be with him. of course you did. and you let yourself ponder and fantasize, but never acted on your urges. sure, you flirted back with dean when he flirted with you, because it was just make-believe. it was funny. it was a joke, and it was easy.

and it was a joke between you for a long time. yet somewhere along the way, that changed.

that’s how you got yourself to right now: laying in dean’s bed. on dean’s sheets.

in dean’s arms.

he’s never brought a girl back to the bunker—so that’s gotta count for something, you think as you lay in his bed. you’ve never seen a girl walking out of dean’s room in the bunker like you see when you stay at motels, so maybe you did matter more to him like he said you did. you let yourself believe it, even if it really wasn’t exactly true. let yourself believe that maybe this wouldn't end tonight, maybe you’d have something more with dean.

but you can’t really even think about that—or anything else, for that matter, because in your time together, dean made you come 4 times. you’d never been able to do that in one sitting—by yourself or otherwise, at least not without breaks in between—but dean was wringing you out for all you were.

and you gave it to him. willingly. truly.

you were barely making coherent noises by the end, on your last orgasm. and you were loud. and it sounded like you were in pain—thank god sam was gone, because you felt embarrassed, so goddamn embarrassed to be making such noises. but dean quite literally fucked the self-consciousness right out of you. he pressed his nose to your cheek like the tip of his dick pressed deep inside you—and when you poorly stifiled a moan that was coming out of you, he just shook his head against yours and said to let him hear it.

dean told you that he could hear your thoughts from here. he told you to just enjoy it. told you that you could say stop if you felt too overwhelmed, and he would. he said most of that while he pounded into you, so it was hard to focus on his words.

but you still heard him.

yet you didn’t tell him to stop.

he also shushed you when you tried to apologize for essentially being a ragdoll instead of an engaging member of sex with him after the third time you came. he didn't mind, he said. said he got off on it, watching you come undone, over and over, getting drunk on him. and you should've expected this kind of reassurance from him, you really should've. he provides in every other possible way, in every sense—so how could sex be any different?

you’re close to dozing off now, though. you can distinctly feel dean’s body still on top of yours—he’d also gone full ragdoll after holding off his own orgasm for so long—but that’s about all you can feel, besides the throbbing from your lower region, which is still wrapped around dean.

you're wet in every sense—sweat, fluids, basically a puddle of yourself. you’re starting to feel sticky from yours and dean’s fluids mixed together as your senses come back, but you don’t move. you’re too tired. your eyes are just so heavy, so you just close them. allow the aftermath of the experience you just had to wash over you completely, leaving you all floaty-like and celestial. your hands are still resting on dean’s back, somewhere by his shoulder blades, no longer hanging on for dear life, now just holding him. you still don't move, save for breathing.

then, it could've been seconds, it could've been hours—but dean finally stirs enough to look up at you from where he lay on top of you, rests his chin on your chest right bewteen your boobs. the movement makes you look down at him, too—but don't get it twisted, you just open your eyes enough to look at dean. you’re still wiped.

and dean just looks at you, doesn't say anything right away. he blinks a few times, then reaches up to your face, brushes his fingers against your cheek. the corner of his mouth twitches up a little, and if you were the tinest bit more coherent, you’d probably feel embarrassed—but you aren’t coherent.

now, you're too tired to care if he thinks you’ve lost all your appeal, now that the sex is over. now that there’s nothing new to discover, now that he’s scratched the itch. too tired to care if he’s gonna kick you out back to your room, because now you’re all sweaty and gross and sticky, no longer a shining star, no longer something to be conquered.

but he doesn't do that.

instead, his fingers continue to gently caress the side of your face, over and over. like he was trying to memorize it. then he lifts his chin and places a kiss on your chest. then another kiss before he lifts himself up off and completely out of you with a small grunt—and for a split second you think he’s gonna leave you here, but then his face comes completely into view above you, his nose brushing yours again.

“y’got any idea how perfect y’are?”

the slurred words catch you off-guard—but that’s a severe understatement. you don't hear the word ‘perfect’ from dean often, and certainly not after he was just balls-deep inside of you, moaning your name over and over again. touching you. wanting you. needing you.

dean doesn’t let you answer his question, though. he just kisses the side of one of your cheeks, murmuring a ‘b’right back’ against your face, inking the reassurance in your skin before you can even attempt to say anything or reach for him. then he moves, and you hear a squeak of the sink in the corner of his room, hear his footsteps padding back over to you against the concrete a few beats later.

dean’s hand touches you first—sliding up your leg gently, and you’re certain he’s making sure he doesn’t scare you, since you’re laying there deader than a sack of potatoes. you hum when he does, moving a little—or at least trying to, but he shakes his head at you, his other hand pressing you down on his bed.

his bed.

jesus. his bed. the pillow smells like him, everything fucking smells like him. it’s invading every pore of your body. your heart’s still pounding, but it’s slowing down when dean moves away from your face again. you feel warmth between your thighs, and look down, squinting in the dim light to see what dean was wiping you with.

it’s his shirt he was wearing, the one you yanked off of him earlier. he’d gotten it wet in his sink with warm water, and was currently wiping at the creases of your thighs, slick and sticky with dampess up with his shirt.

you don’t know why he was doing this. did he do this with everyone he hooked up with? you tried not to think about it, but now that the fog was finally starting to clear in your mind, it was hard not to. the gesture, the view of him in front of you on his bed? it puts a lump in your throat.

you’re in love with him.

you’ve been in love with him for a long time.

and you know he’s probably just as tired as you—he’d done pretty much all the work sex-wise, but you noticed and knew he liked it, being the giver. always giving, never asking for anything. taking care of you.

and you let him.

four times.

but you also noticed he was getting tired at the end. he almost tuckered out, tossed in the towel, and didn’t come at all. he was panting as hard as you were on the last round, and he was just as sweaty. held it off until it almost hurt, like he didn't want it to end. he was speaking all sorts of rambles too, his words stringing together.

you can still see, even in just the dim, barely-there golden light of his room that his face is red. not pink. not blushing. beet fucking red. you can see his shoulders rising and falling quickly with each breath, and you want to reach up to touch him. but you’re not sure about doing it, so you resort to blindly grabbing at him until your hand makes contact with him.

your hand ends up somewhere on his arm—and he looks at your hand on his skin, then looks up at you with those green eyes.

“come up here,” you murmur, tugging his arm—and he moves like there’s an anvil attached him that you pulled on, rising over you just enough to not squish you with his body weight.

your hand on dean’s arm finds purchase on his face as you rise and turn—and dean molds to you like a slab of clay, letting you do what you want. he lets himself lay down next to you instead of over you, like before. your body’s moving him mindlessly without barely touching him—and you just look at him when his head hits his pillow, both your chests rising and falling slower now.

you wish you could tell him he doesn’t have to take care of you. tell him that he’s allowed to rest here with you, allowed to not be… dean winchester. the sex god, the caretaker, always having to be on. you wish you could say that he’s allowed to just be dean instead. you don’t know how to tell him that.

but the thing is: dean already knows.

he knows that he’s allowed to shell out his own little part of you to hide out inside when things get too bad. he knows that you’ll always be there for him—for every nightmare, every apocalypse, every angel and demon that has a hitlist. he knows you’ll hug him without him having to ask, and even patch him up if you come across him drinking by himself in the bunker instead of getting the first aid kit. you’ll gently coax him awake when he falls asleep at the library’s table and quite literally drag him to his own bed, muttering about how this is why his back hurts all the time and other righteous, nice things—because you care about him.

and he cares about you.

he’s been a goner for you.

he’s in love with you, too.

that’s why he’ll take everything you have to offer him, over and over. he’ll let you hold him until the sun inevitably comes up again after a nightmare, let your hands touch him when he fall asleep with his laptop and a bunch of books open—and why he barely flinches when he hears your voice in his ears, waking him up, and he’ll let you tow him to his bedroom.

your hands move, reaching for something—dean looks up out of his thoughts to see what it is.

it’s his shirt.

you sit up more, hair sticking up, bunched and messy from dean’s hands running through it—and he’s never seen anything more beautiful. anything more perfect. he’s distracted by your face, your body, so he doesn't really register what you’re doing until he feels his wet shirt on his skin. you’re wiping him off, like he did for you. that’s when it hits him.

you’re trying to take care of him, too.

he looks down at his shirt that’s wiping his own skin, wiping away his own fluids mixed with yours. he’s unable to move or look away from the sight. unable to breathe. in all his years, no one’s done this for him: taken the time to take care of him. to let him be the one taking a break.

your other hand’s gently brushing his skin at his hipbone, almost as softly as his shirt. he blinks, blearily. it’s hard to keep his eyes open, and he can feel his body slowly starting to succumb to sleep under your touch, your care, just laying here in the warmth of you laying by his side—albeit propped up next to him.

he wants to tell you that you don’t have to do this. that he’s perfectly okay with being the caretaker, the one who carries it all. he’s been cast aside like a used tissue after sex—and he’s done the same too, so really, he shouldn’t feel so empty about that when it happens to him, but he does. he’ll take it. take it and bury it deep instead of letting himself feel it. that’s all he knows, all he can do. because he can’t try to unpack everything, not now.

truly, he doesn’t mind if no one ever took care of him—because he’s not allowed to mind. he’s not allowed to feel any sort of way about taking care of others, he just has to do it. no questions, no talkback, no lip. because that’s his job. most of the time, he just ends up pushing people away. he’s not good at showing anything other than anger. but he has everyone taken care of, in the end. at least he has that.

dean doesn’t tell you to stop doesn’t tell you to get off him, or make a joke as you wipe at him. he doesn’t do anything, actually. not a damn thing. he’s not sure why, either. he’s pretty sure he blacked out, instead of being present in the moment. he’s been doing that a lot recently—not knowing what he’s doing, lost in his own thoughts, brain on autopilot. he almost walked into a sign in front of a restaurant in the middle of the sidewalk the other day. a goddamn sign. what the hell was wrong with him lately?

dean finally snaps back into the moment, slowly blinking his eyes at you like an owl. he swallows the words that never came, that never even formed into a thought as looks at you. you're still naked—and that is a sight dean could get used to, that’s for damn sure.

you turn and lean over the edge of his bed a little, and dean immediatley siezes up, a sinking, deveastating feeling weighing on his chest like a dumbell, because this is it. you’re leaving. you got what you wanted, just his body, just to get off, and now you’re leaving. he’s given you everything and more and you’re leaving, leaving him like a toy you don’t want to play with anymore, leaving him like everything and everyone in his life. you’ve already grown bored of him, and now this thing between you is over before it even began.

but then you turn back to face him, your entire expression soft.

you were just putting his shirt you were using on the floor.

oh.

dean tries to look like he didn’t just get scared, but he knows some part of you noticed. he’s vulnrable right now, a easy target. you could walk out his bedroom door right now and he’d probably just cry instead of going after you. he actually feels like he could cry on the spot right now. he hopes you won’t say anything. you usually don’t—just hold him, hug him, touch him without a word.

and oh, how dean loved to be touched by you.

he’d take 40 more years in hell if it meant your hand could brush his face one last time. he’d take an eternity of torture, or he himself doing the torturing in the pit for your arms around him again. he’d kill anyone, steal anything, do whatever it took if it meant being near you.

but he has to act like he wouldn’t do that for you. he’d burn down anything for you to even look in his direction, for your touch on his flannel-clad shoulder, for your kiss on his cheek, an embrace from your arms. yet he had to act normal about it. but you were the only one who knew how to hug him correctly. sam, knew too, by default. but that was different—that’s his brother. his blood.

but you touched him like you’d spent your whole life learning to.

and you even hugged him like second nature, but still molded to the moment, still exactly what he needed. because you always knew where to squeeze, where to rest your head on him, no matter the situation. no matter if you won a hunt, a fight, an apocolaypse, or if you lost, you fit his body like a puzzle piece. like a lock and key. he’d known that—but it was carved into him forever after tonight, and he’d never forget.

because earlier, when he first slid inside you, it’s like the whole world had been off-kilter until he found his way inside you, the way he’s wanted to be inside you for so long. once he’d bottomed out, it’s like the world was right, for once in his life. like everything made sense after so long of it being chaos.

dean knows it’s ridiculous to feel such a thing, especially during sex, but in that moment, he did. he fit so snug, so perfect inside you that it felt like he’d gotten chucked into one of his dreams again, where he was watching you below him, you touching him the way he’s wanted you to touch him for so long. moaning his name, bringing him closer to you with your hands. just for the sake of being close, touching.

he’s been waiting for it. since forever, it feels like. since the moment he laid eyes on you. since the moment he had even an idea of what love was.

he must’ve been staring pretty hard, because one of your hands had made its way up to the side of his face, your eyes searching his expression. you’re looking to see what he’s thinking about. dean hopes it’s not written all over his face, but you seem to know what he’s thinking regardless if his expression shows it or not.

your thumbs brush his cheeks once, twice—still searching. still wanting him. he honestly still can't believe it. he’s not sure he ever will. you being here with him, he’s sure to wake up from this dream at any moment.

but he doesn't. you’re still in front of him. touching him.

and you want him there.

that’s why he lays down and rests his head on your chest with no complaints, no pushback when you tug him towards you after you lay down yourself. he doesn't protest partly because he actually really was fucking tired, but mostly because eventually, you’ll leave him—and dean will have nothing but the memoty of you, of your touch. maybe that’ll be changed, now that you’ve crossed the line he’s wanted to cross for so long now.

your hand finds his way into his hair, gently running your fingers through it and tugging dean out of his thoughts—and he has to bite back a noise from how good it feels. he sighs softly instead, relaxing more on top of you. he wonders if he’s making it hard for you to breathe. it’s happened before.

but you don’t move.

and now he can die happy.

dean would die for anything. it was damn near inevitable in this line of work—and shit, it already happened. he’d die for you, for his brother, his father, or some random person he doesn’t even know. he’ll lay it all down, if it meant saving the world, or even just saving one life. he’d do it. he has done it, over and over.

but you don’t say anything. you just hold him. dean can feel your heartbeat, feel your chest rising and falling. and in that piece of sunlight and everything warm and good, dean knows. he’s always known the terrifying truth about you.

you make him want to live.

and that scares him beyond belief.

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⠀﹒ ❤︎ ' for a hunter, you had the largest collection of lacey bras and underwear. they all matched, had pretty designs, fit perfectly; dean knew. obviously, he’d seen your underwear before, you were on the road together.

usually though, laundry was your job once you got to motels. you knew how to do it best. but this time, you’d ask dean to do it while you followed a lead that was easiest for you rather than a man. he hadn’t thought much of it when he agreed, but boy, was he rethinking it now.

“fuck?” he dangled a pretty lilac purple thong on his thumb, staring at the thing like it was the strangest object he’d ever seen. but when he held it up right, his back straightened. it was so… pretty. placing it on the bed next to him and reaching down into the basket. dean pulls out pair after pair, almost in a trance.

they were such delicate little things, too perfect. each one was prettier than the next, all spread out around his lap after he finished folding the rest of your clothes. he was just stuck on these and the fact that they were yours.

dean picks up the pretty pink pair, maybe one of the skimpiest ones. letting out a shaky sigh, he stares at it in his hands. and with the way his cock twitched and strained against the confinement of his jeans? he knew he was in trouble. desire and lust crept up his neck all too fast, taking over his thoughts.

pictures of you flashed in his mind; fully clothed, naked, with these on. dean took a deep breath, tongue wetting his dry lips as he closed his eyes and imagined this baby pink against the color of your skin. he imagined the way they’d fit on you, hug your hips just right.

before dean knew it, his hand was on his crotch, palming himself slowly. “fuck me..” he grunts, giving into his newfound desire.

quickly getting up, dean grabs another little black pair, clutching it with the pink one in his fist as he tosses the rest into the basket of your clothes. he nearly trips over himself as he stumbles into the small bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind him. he leans against it, breathing deep as his other hand shakily unbuttons and unzips his jeans. ‘this isn’t bad, right? they’re clean.’ he’d convince himself, freeing his now throbbing length from his boxers.

his thick girth was swollen with a deep blushy head, leaky with pre already. god, he was so turned on. and he could only pray that you or sam weren’t on your way home right now, he’d be fucked.

dean collects the precum from his sticky tip, smearing it up and down his cock with his spit covered palm. “oh my..” he groans, tightening his grip. he peaks an eye open, reaching for the lace on the counter before wrapping it around his veiny shaft, stroking himself with it. “fuckfuckfuck—”

a knot ties in his stomach as the need for pleasure overtakes any sense of wrong from right. the rough fabric of the lacey panties mixed with the thought of you was more than enough for him.

images of you flash behind his eyelids again, what you’d say, how you’d sound, how you’d feel. “god, you’d feel so fucking perfect, sweetheart.” he moans, stickier sounds emerging. “i need you.. need you so bad.” his hand jerked himself faster, on the verge of release. “i can’t—” the lace provided just the right amount of friction against him, resulting in his hips fucking into his hand wildly. the desire for you was so strong, more than what the lace could provide, but it sufficed.

with one last squeezing stroke, dean’s release hit him like a damn truck, sending him hunching over the bathroom counter as his seed shot out in quick, warm spurts. it got on the cabinets, his thighs, and your panties still tightly wrapped around him. his abdomen flexes as he cums, the white-hot pleasure damn near making him see stars. “aaah… oh, fuck-fucking hell…” he moaned, panting as a thin layer of sweat beaded on his forehead.

reality slowly set in, but dean couldn’t find it in him to feel guilty. not now. he stayed like that for a while, just breathing into the air as he lets go of his softening cock. “m’so screwed…” he stares down at the one pristine and clean pink lace, now stained and ruined with his cum. he hated to admit the sight made his pulse jump again.

dean quickly washed up, rinsing the evidence off your panties and hiding that single pair with his stuff. maybe you wouldn’t notice. he hoped you wouldn’t notice. dean also hoped you would ask him to do the laundry more often without questions of why your underwear started disappearing.

“jesus, sammy, what the hell are we—” it’s dean, looking much, much more relaxed than he usually is. upon first glance, his hair is sticking up in all directions, and his eyes, usually so sharp, are glossed over. you open your mouth to say something, but dean beats you to it.

“hello.” dean says your name, stumbling a little and holding himself up on your doorframe before smirking at you, eyeing you up and down. it’d usually make you blush, but it makes you fight a smile. he’s a dork, even drunk.

“your turn,” sam deadpans. “‘m goin’ to bed.”

“wai— sam!” you exclaim as he starts down the hall, and he shakes his head as he walks away.

“hi,” you sigh back, patting the side of dean’s bicep, leading him into your room. “c’mon.”

“y’know, i always liked y’room,” dean muses as he stumbles once more. “s’so… you, y’know?”

“thanks,” you look down, unsure what to say to that. dean wasn’t known to give out compliments willy-nilly. “so, why’d sam leave you with me?”

“he didn’t leave me,” dean declares, a pout shining through the inebriation on his face as he plops down on your bed, almost falling over before stabilizing himself. then looks down. “…but i did maybe throw up. jus’ a ‘lil. and maybe sam got mad ‘cause i maybe missed the toilet.”

“oh, i see,” you chuckle to yourself, shaking your head. no wonder sam dropped him off, you think before taking a seat next to dean. he looks up at you as you do, and doesn’t take his eyes off of you after that. he just stares, like he’s trying to see inside you.

“y’got pretty eyes,” he murmurs, almost a whisper. “i like ‘em.”

“thanks,” you say again, reeling from his words. “you, too.”

dean’s quiet again for a moment. you feel like you’re supposed to say something else. it’s the thing you’ve been wanting to say to dean for what feels like forever, but never allowed yourself to. you don’t say it, though. you chicken out, again.

“y’think so?” dean searches your face, leaning dangerously back and forth, no doubt trying to keep his balance despite sitting down.

“i know so,” you reply quietly, the corners of your mouth turning up despite the dull pang you felt in your chest.

“yea, i know,” he mutters, looking down briefly. “y’know everythin’. makes me crazy sometimes. s’like… y’know what ‘m thinkin’ or somethin’.” he pauses, looks up at you again. “do y’know what ‘m’thinkin’ right now?”

“no,” you softly respond, shaking your head. “what?”

“how amazin’ y’are,” dean whispers, like it’s a secret. “an’ y’re funny. an’ smart. an’…” he trails off, his eyes flicking downwards. “an’ like, my heart, it does this weird thing whenever i see ya.”

“it does?” you inquire, searching his face.

“yeah,” dean nods his head, his face flushing a deeper pink than the flush of his drunkness. he looks embarrassed, like he’s a little kid that got caught with his hand in the cookie jar as he sways again. “an’ i can’t stop thinkin’ about you. y’re always on my mind. an’ sam ain’t any help, he keeps tellin’ me to talk to ya, but i dunno how. ‘m such a freakin’ coward.”

dean meets your eyes, and he looks… scared. terrified. you haven’t seen him like that, ever.

“you’re talking to me right now,” you point out. “and… you’re doing pretty okay so far.”

“oh,” he says, blinking owlishly. “well, yea, i guess i am. huh.”

“i uhm,” you start, glancing down. “i can’t stop thinking about you, either.”

“y’can’t?” dean looks at you curiously, not masking the hopefulness in his voice.

“yeah,” you nod, feeling your nerves getting more jittery. “i mean, i just… i care about you. a lot. more than anyone.”

“oh,” dean says again before he grins a little stupidly. “awesome.”

“yeah,” you snicker. “pretty awesome.”

“ough, i owe sammy an apology,” dean grumbles as shakes his head. “kept tellin’ me to tell you. ‘dean, you need to talk about your feelings.’ ‘dean, you can’t drink that much.’ ‘dean, you can’t eat the entire bag of beer bottle candies, you’ll throw up.’” dean imitates sam, rolling his eyes. “blah, blah, blah. he needsta go to eileen’s and get laid. that’ll get ‘im off my case.”

“you ate all the candy beer bottles? all of it? the whole bag?” you inquire, concerned—that bag was huge.

“everythin’s edible, if you ain’t a coward,” dean glares at you.

“i’m a coward? you just complained about being one less than 5 minutes ago!” you exclaim.

“touché,” dean grumbles again, leaning into your side as he rests his head on your shoulder. “y’still… y’still love me, right?”

“yes, dean,” you nod, resting your head on top of his. “i do.”

📨 this totally reminded me of my other drunk fic blame it on the alcohol. it was nice to bring back happy messy drunk dean :’) thank you 🪷 anon <3