#hunter!user

hunter!user x bunker!dean

synopsis: dean's back from a solo hunt that went somewhat badly, making him realise something. immediately seeks your touch when he's back, then is distant for a while, in his usual emotionally-constipated way. set sometime after s8 when they move into the bunker.

word count: 2.6k

The dim light of the bunker cast long shadows across the war room, where an array of maps and notes were sprawled across the table. The silence felt loud, especially with it being only you in the bunker. Sam and Dean were both on solo hunts; Sam in Arizona, and Dean in New Orleans. 

You stood beside the table, flipping through a book, tension creeping into your shoulders. The recent hunts have been undeniably brutal. Every loss weighed heavily on you, Sam, and Dean. 

Just as you were about to sit down and take a moment to breathe, the heavy door swung open, creaking against the concrete walls. The moment Dean stepped inside, trudging down the stairs, an air of exhaustion surrounded him, his face etched with the strain of a particularly tough hunt. He looked worn, weary. 

Without a word, Dean’s gaze locked onto you. 

In an instant, all the burdens he carried seemed to melt away, replaced by a familiar warmth that he only feels with you. It’s a shame you’re both just friends, he thinks, a tinge of sadness in his chest. 

Dean strode across the room, dropped his duffel bag, and before you could register what was happening, he enveloped you in a tight embrace, seamlessly lifting you off your feet. “Hey,” he murmured against your hair, his voice low and slightly raspy. “Missed you.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the only thing that comes out is a muffled “Mrphehhe fnacack?” into his chest. 

He chuckles quietly, his shoulders shaking. He pulls away, looking down at you with a twinkle in his eyes. “What was that?” he asks, his voice quiet to accommodate the intimate atmosphere that had been created. 

“You’re back,” you repeat, raising an eyebrow. Your hand lingers on his side, before you catch yourself and let it drop beside you, slightly awkward. “We spoke yesterday. You said you wouldn’t be back for a few days.” 

Dean shrugs as he pulls away from you, taking a few steps to the side to peer at what you had been working on before he interrupted. “Yeah, well. You mentioned that the bunker was quiet.”

You stare at him, expecting to develop on that point a bit. 

He does not. 

“And?” you prod him verbally, needing more than that. “Doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

He picks up one of the papers, flicking through it as if he cares about what you were researching. He doesn’t. He drops the flimsy material back onto the table with no finesse. “Figured I’d come back. Make the bunker less…” he trails off, trying to find the right term. “Quiet. I dunno.”

You silently cross your arms, watching him, watching his demeanour. The bags under his eyes; he’s clearly tired. The dried blood on his face and his clothes indicate that there was a bloodbath. 

For as long as you’ve known him, he almost never tells the truth about his feelings. He rarely discusses his emotions, only when he’s at his absolute breaking point. He shrugs his leather jacket off, draping it over the back of a nearby chair. 

You know he won’t say shit about his feelings, unless you initiate that conversation. 

“So,” you start, trudging to the nearby kitchenette and grabbing two beers, chucking him one. “How was the hunt? Let me guess. Vampires.” 

Dean cracks the beer bottle open and sits on the edge of the table, watching you as he takes a swig. “How’d you know? Could’ve been a Rugaru.”

You similarly open your bottle and take a sip, leaning against the adjoining doorway. “Wouldn’t be covered in that much blood had it been a Rugaru.” 

He rolls his eyes. “Alright, smartass.” He sighs, rolling his neck to click it. “Yeah, it was… definitely something.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Expand.” 

Dean ignores the way his stomach twists when he hears the command. “Vamps came at me in all directions. It was a close call a few times.”

You look at him in disbelief. This is typical Dean: taking on the weight of the world, nearly dying, not asking for help, and brushing it off. You hate him sometimes. “Are you joking?” you ask, dumbfounded. Dean squeezes his eyes shut, ready to take it. “Your phone works, does it not? You have opposable thumbs, don't you? You should’ve called me! I’d have made my way there.” 

“I know,” Dean grits out. “I know. Don’t give me grief. I didn’t want to disturb you and… whatever it is you were doing here.” He motions behind him lacklusterly. “Plus, I thought I could handle it until the four vamps came at me. Can you teleport? Didn’t think so.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s fine. I made it out. Just… It's fine.”

The silence that hangs between you two is almost painful, safe to say. The concern and anger bubbling inside of you is almost palpable, while Dean is exuding exhaustion and vulnerability. If you push him more, he’ll shut down. 

You take a swig of your beer, gritting your teeth at the yeasty taste and biting back harsh words you’re dying to spit out. Dean tilts his head down, looking up through his lashes — not in a way that’s flirtatious, but in a defensive way, trying to physically shield himself from any other verbal attacks that may come his way. 

You sigh harshly, turning away. Taking a moment to yourself, to calm yourself down. When you’re Sam and Dean’s hunting partner, and somehow survived the Winchester curse [for now], a lot of anger and concern is involved. The boys are martyrs, especially for each other. 

This is not your first rodeo. You just need a minute.

You eventually turn back to face Dean, your face somewhat calm. “I’m just glad you’re okay,” you say evenly. “Next time, call me. Or no more solo hunts for you.”

Dean, knowing not to provoke you any more, nods. “Yes, sir.” 

You walk back to the table, standing beside where he’s sitting on the edge. You nudge him with your shoulder, trying to extend an olive branch. “Hungry?” you ask, eyes scanning on the papers as you put them all together neatly. 

To your surprise, Dean shakes his head. “Nah,” he says, his voice sitting low in his voice box. “Was thinking of just… showering and crashing.” 

You turn to look at him, surprise evident on your face. “You sure? I was thinking on grabbing a burger from that diner down the road—”

He cuts you off with another firm shake of his head, his lips downturned slightly. “Nah,” he repeats. “No appetite.” 

You blinked. Once, twice, three times. Unsure if you’re dreaming. 

Dean never turns down a burger. Goddamn. That hunt must’ve fucked with him in a way that is unimaginable to a regular person’s mind.

“D—” you start, but he’s already heading down the hallway, a beer bottle hanging nimbly between his thumb, forefinger, and middle finger. You watch him go, jaw unhinged slightly, shock running through your veins. 

For about forty minutes after that, you sit on the chair, staring at the stack of papers you had tidied up. Your own beer bottle rests in your lap, nearly finished, as several things run through your mind: what could’ve happened on that hunt that made Dean not want a burger, if this is a long-term thing, and if he would speak to you about it. 

You decide to bite the bullet. 

You leave the bottle on the table, stand up, and make your way down the hallway to Dean’s room. You barely knock — once, just to signal you’re about to open the door, not even waiting for him to allow you to come in.

You lean against the doorframe, watching Dean’s form as he lies on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Not doing anything special. 

Just a bit … sad, really. Like a depressed puppy.

“Are you sure you don’t want to eat anything?” You ask, crossing your arms. “I can even grab you some pie.” You pause. “If you ask nicely.”

Dean doesn’t bother to look at you, his gaze transfixed on the ceiling. He grunts. “Nah.” 

You exhale sharply through your nose. There’s no point trying to prod or push him now. He’d only shut down. And you aren’t a therapist. You’re not paid for this. 

“Okay,” You relent, turning away, hand on the doorknob, about to shut the door after leaving. There’s no point in irritating Dean. It’s like kicking a dog when it’s down. “You know where I am if you need anything.” 

As you’re about to shut the door and walk away, Dean quietly protests. “Wait.”

You stop in your tracks. Your ears strain into Dean’s room, wondering if that was a trick of your mind or he genuinely told you to wait. “What?” You ask. “Did you say something?” 

Dean props himself up on one elbow, watching as you peek into the room. “I said wait,” he sighs, like he’s being forced to speak. “Just… wait.” 

You re-open the door, waiting patiently. If he wants something, he has to say it. God gave him a voicebox for a reason. 

He exhales sharply as he lies back down, staring at the ceiling again. “D’ya mind… staying?” he eventually mustered up, voice quiet, vulnerable. “For a bit?” 

You raise your eyebrows. You don’t respond, but you silently enter his room, shutting the door behind you. You sit on the edge of his bed, gaze turned over your shoulder to where Dean is avoiding eye contact. 

He eventually turns his head to look at you. It feels like time has stopped, the moment his eyes, struggling to hide the fact that something happened on the hunt, met yours. 

You hate it when a man makes you feel like this. 

But, somehow, it’s okay when it’s Dean.

He reaches out, gently grabbing your forearm, pulling you down so you’re lying in a similar position to him. 

You stare up at the ceiling, one hand on your stomach, the other lying beside you, next to Dean’s. You turn your head, studying his side profile, silent as you do so. Your mind wanders as you take in how absurd this situation is — Dean encouraging you to lie next to him in silence. 

With him, it’s all go, go, go. There’s no time to feel feelings, or have ‘chick flick moments,’ as he calls it. It’s all hunts and food and patching each other up. There are some bouts of anger and screaming matches, but nothing quite like this. No silence in vulnerability. 

“Dean?” you start quietly, deciding to break the silence. 

“Mmhm?” he grunts, not turning his head to look at you. His eyes remain fixed on the ceiling. 

You prop yourself up on your elbow, chin in palm, eyes never leaving his face. In his peripheral vision, he can clearly see the concern on your face. It makes his stomach churn. 

“Please,” you say quietly. “Talk to me. What the hell happened out there?” 

He had never heard you plead before. Not like this. Not with pure concern in your voice. 

On bodily instinct, heat pricks at his eyes, tears beginning to pool. He shakes his head, scrubbing a hand over his face, and sighing shakily. 

He doesn’t have long before he comes undone, with one concerned statement from you. 

“I—” his voice breaks, shaking his head again. Your free hand flies to his shoulder, trying to ground him. “I really thought that was it for me, y’know?” 

You glance around, confusion at your core. Dean’s in tears over him nearly dying, when he’s been borderline suicidal for the last odd thirty-something years of his life? 

“But you’ve been all gung-ho about dying with a gun in your hand,” you say evenly, prying. “Going out in a blaze of glory. Surely a nest of vamps fits that description, no?” 

“I know. I know.” he croaks, refusing to look at you still. “But it was different. That’s not how I wanted to—” he cuts himself off with another firm shake of his head.

It seems like he’s mulling something over, deciding on whether to say something or not. And before you can speak, he turns on his side, propping himself up on his elbow to face you, in a similar style. 

With his free hand, he hastily wipes away a stray tear. His eyes meet yours for the first time in what feels like forever. “I didn’t want to die without telling you how I feel.” 

Your heart stops. Drops to your stomach. Hell, drops out of your ass.

This is not what you think it is… right?

You raise your eyebrows, keeping a cool exterior so Dean doesn’t see your mind beginning to scramble and jump to conclusions. “How you feel?” you all but croak. “Wh—”

He cuts you off. If he doesn’t tell you now, he doesn’t think he ever will.

“God,” he groans, saying your name in a way that makes your heart clench in anticipation. “I think I’m in love with you!” 

Your eyebrows fly to your hairline. It was what you were expecting, but hearing the ‘L’ word fall from his lips will never not surprise you. You decide to push your luck a little. “You think?”

He all but glares at you. “Watch it.” 

You tilt your head, a small smile playing on your lips. His eyes soften as he sighs, realising he needs to continue talking. 

“You’re the best person I know. You’re so fucking amazing. You can leave whenever you want, but you don’t. You deal with my shit like it’s yours. It’s so hard not to fall in love with you. I’ve been trying not to for years, but I just can’t help but fall harder. You make me see the great in the world. You somehow make me less destructive. You make me want out of this life. I’m dreaming of a stupid white picket fence again. I thought I gave that dream up, I thought it was impossible for me, but whenever I look at you, it’s all I see.” Words fell from his mouth, unable to stop. However, he does grimace a little when he adds, “And I think… you might be a better hunter than me.” 

You’re silent. Speechless. You’re living an event you never thought would happen: Dean Winchester venting about his feelings.

Dean’s eyes narrow, suddenly feeling anxious at your lack of response to his bold declaration. 

“Okay, the silence?” he motions between you, shaking his head. “No. Can you say something? I feel like—” 

You decide against words. Your voice can’t handle it right now. 

Actions speak louder than words, anyway.

You lean forward, cutting Dean off as you press your lips to his. His lips still against yours for a brief moment before he responds, kissing you back in a gentleness you didn’t know existed within him. As he relaxes into the contact, his hand finds your jaw, his fingers tracing the line of it. 

You pull away, a smile on your face. You kept the kiss short and sweet, hoping it conveys your point. 

He looks down at you with awe in his eyes, like you hung the moon. “So you—?” Dean starts, letting himself feel hope for the first time in his life. 

You nod, eyes crinkling. “Yeah.” You pause, before adding, “But no more solo hunts for you.” 

Dean exhales a quiet laugh, pressing a kiss to your forehead, thanking whatever God is up there for you not laughing in his face just now. “Yeah, okay. That’s fair.”

dividers: @strangergraphics <3