Phantom Life
synopsis ٠࣪⭑ you were captured by a Djinn and now you’re mourning a life that wasn’t real
contents ٠࣪⭑ Dean Winchester x reader (f), non-explicit, age gap implied cause why not?? innocent/shy!reader implied, mentions having curly hair (can totally be ignored, it was entirely self-indulgent), soft angst, unrequited love (but it’s actually not), yearning!dean, 3.8k word count
notes ٠࣪⭑ This is my first ever fic, please be kind (constructive feedback welcome). I actually had a lot of fun writing this, it was just for myself but I liked it so much that I decided to share it! Also sorry if the lores not right, I haven’t watched the Djinn eps in a min and I was too lazy to confirm every detail
It was days after the Djinn case. The one that had Dean scouring some nowhere town like a madman looking for you, his chest twisting with guilt, the fact you were taken right under his nose settles like an incurable chill in his bones. But it was possibly worse seeing you there, hanging by tied up wrists, body limp and frail, the tube of the blood bag sticking out of your arm like you’re some monster's prepped and ready buffet.
Sure, you were alive and he didn’t have to wonder anymore, but the sight didn’t serve as much of a relief.
Dean cradled your bruised frame so gently in his arms, despite the rage and worry clinging to his insides, as he and Sam took you down. Murmured apologies leaving his lips as he carried you back to the impala, not caring if his little brother or your half out-of-it self can hear him, all he cares about right now is you.
The days following were quiet, you’d tried to bounce back, really tried— but the illusive life promised to you by the Djinn, plagued every thought and every moment of every day.
You could still feel the comfortable weight of the ring on your finger, the feeling of Dean’s rough hands gently caressing your soft skin, you could still hear the sounds of peace and cicadas becoming the soundtrack to your life, only being interrupted by the sweet giggles and babbling of your baby. A baby girl, named Layla Mary Winchester, Dean didn’t even have to convince you to name your first child after an old rock song, you loved it the second he suggested it.
She was all Dean, from the green hue of her eyes, to the freckles on her nose, the plump and pink little lips that could make any grown woman jealous, and the devious little smirk they wore, but the hair, that was all you— her ringlets almost so perfect it’s as if God hand curled them around His own finger. You could see how Dean's face went all soft whenever he touched her hair, so reverently, his mind no doubt going back to the first time he ran his hand through your curls.
You could still remember bath times and teaching Dean how to do pig tails after he failed horribly the first time. You can still smell the home cooked meals mixed with the strong scent of motor oil and that sweet sweat that clung to Dean's skin after working on the car all afternoon, under the warm sun. You’d gotten used to telling him to wash his hands before picking up Layla or trying to steal a bite of whatever was on the stove.
Layla clung to him anyway, that was probably what you missed most. The way Dean had looked at this little version of the both of you with so much love, the way he was always so gentle with her but also teaching her to be tough without dismissing that softness that came from her mother, he’d held her when she cried and contorted his features into the stupidest faces just to hear her laugh.
Stop it, you had to remind yourself, because none of it was real.
Dean wasn’t yours, you didn’t have a cozy little house in a rural area, there was no dancing to oldies on Sunday mornings, no bedtime stories or nap time cuddles, there were no rings or kisses or home cooked meals. It was just another cruel form of torture in your horror-filled lives, one a monster cooked up just for you.
You hate to even think it, but you almost wished Sam and Dean had never found you… just so you could stay in that perfect little dream world, just a little longer.
The boys didn’t know what to do because you wouldn’t tell them, you’d barely said anything other than “sorry”s and “I’m fine” since they found you.
There was no way you could look Dean in his face and tell him that the Djinn looked in your head and found that your dream world consisted of being his wife and the mother of his non-existent daughter, with no monsters and no blood and no hunting.
Not when he didn’t see you that way, not when you were exactly what he didn’t want— a non-confrontational, soft, criminally un-sexy, doesn’t drink or smoke or sleep around, wants something real, girl— to admit that would be a suicide mission.
Sam might understand if you told him. He sees the way you look at his brother, the way you laugh at Deans jokes even if they’re not funny, he catches the way your face heats when Dean calls you “sweetheart” and every excuse you make just to stand or sit a little closer to him. He also sees the wrecked look on your face when Dean leaves with random women, no matter how hard you try to mask it, Sam sees the way you go quiet when a pretty girl slides a hand down Dean's leather-clad bicep, the way you laugh it off when he calls you “kid” as if the word doesn’t feel like a punch straight to your chest. But just because Sam is an observant know-it-all doesn’t mean you are going to tell him about this little dream life you’re mourning.
“Go talk to her” Dean whisper yelled at his brother, the two watching you from across the diner, you still haven’t opened up about anything involving the djinn case.
You’ve been stepping back during hunts, never talking his ear off with your excited rants anymore, and he swears he’s seen more fake smiles on your face in the past week than he’s seen your real smiles the entire time he’s known you.
He’s sick of it— he’s sick of not seeing you light up over little coffee shops or stray alley cats, he’s sick of not hearing your voice quietly singing along to the radio then acting like you weren’t when he caught you, he’s sick of you avoiding his gaze, of ignoring him almost completely. It’s even worse that you’re not cold about it, you’re just… pulling back. He hates how much it affects him.
“Why do I have to talk to her?” Sam whispered back, tearing his eyes away from where you were sitting at the booth across the diner, looking at the raindrops fall down the windows, your untouched coffee going cold in front of you.
“Because—“ Dean started, fighting the urge to pull the older brother card and just say cause I said so.
“Aren’t you like best friends or something?” He decided on instead, crossing his arms over his chest like a child.
“Just because we’re friends doesn’t make it okay for me to say ‘hey you’ve been acting weird since you were kidnapped and slowly dying the other week, everything alright?’” Dean's face fell a little, just a microscopic change in his expression at the reminder of what happened, but he brushed it off.
“that’s not what I meant and you know it” He added, less humor laced in his voice now. Sam sighed, knowing Deans also just worried, it’s just so unlike you to not talk about something. To not even tell Sam anything that’d happened.
You had just gotten out of the shower, pajamas laying on your damp, freshly lotioned skin, your body going through the motions of your somewhat of a night routine, as if you hadn’t just cried under the warm spray at the thought of you never kissing your daughter goodnight again and never falling asleep in Dean’s arms like you had every night in your dream world.
You almost made it to your bed before Dean cornered you, making you look up at him because of his sudden change in proximity.
“What’s going on sweetheart?” he murmured in that undeniably soft voice of his, your chest now clenching at the petname, rather than blushing like before.
“What do you mean?” You replied, voice quiet and thick, probably from the stifled sobs you let out just moments ago.
“Don’t— don’t do that, just talk to me” he said before you could even say anything else, his voice almost pleading, desperate even, but you shook the ridiculous thought away.
“Don’t do what, Dean? What do you want me to say?” You’re playing dumb, doing a good job at it too in your book, because you knew Dean didn’t really care enough to push much further.
“Anything— just say anything at this point, because it’s not like you to be like this… you’re not yourself” his voice came out just a tad firmer, and as if to prove his point you replied with “not myself?” You scoffed lightly.
“Well sorry it’s a little harder for me to go back to normal after what happened, not everyone gets the pleasure of being so resilient as you and Sam.” Your tone was defensive, the tone he only really heard during stupid arguments or research debates, but you never fought, especially not with him.
He was a little taken aback, mouth opening to argue a rebuttal but he bit his tongue— this definitely wasn’t like you, meaning something was up, and it’s not just him being overly protective again. So instead he brushed it off, didn’t take it personally.
“What happened?” He said your name so gently it made your chest twist with guilt already, you just shook your head.
“It’s nothing, I’m f—“ you started again, only to be cut off, “stop it— stop saying you’re fine, you’re not” your resolve started breaking. You turned your head away, throat burning and eyes stinging, all of the emotions you’ve been pushing down for days suddenly starting to bubble up with extra force.
“What do you want me to tell you, Dean?” You cracked, voice louder than before, words tumbling out before you could carefully curate them, “you want me to say I miss it? That I miss the made-up reality that was slowly killing me— you want to hear how I can’t stop thinking about it? You want me to tell you how I almost wish you guys never rescued me?” Your voice broke into a whisper at that, but you still refused to break down in front of him.
The look on his face was almost devastating, the way his confusion turned into shock, and the shock almost turned into sadness, or anger, or both? “You don’t mean that” his voice came out soft again, disbelieving.
“Yeah, well I do—“ you looked away from him, heart hammering under your chest, the burning your throat feeling now as if it was replaced with shards of broken glass. You don’t know how much longer you can hold everything back.
Dean went from disbelief to outrage in a matter of seconds, “what the hell did you have to say something like that—“
“You!” Your voice roared out before you could think about it, eyes burning with the tears you refused to let fall pooling in them, his face dropped but you continued before he even had a chance to blink “I had you, Dean! You were mine, and I was yours— and w-we had this little house in a little town, and the most perfect little girl—“ you’re voice fully gave out at that point, but you were too far gone to stop now. “No monsters, no motels, just us and our stupid little family—“ you choked on your own sobs, your hands going up to cover your mouth as if you were trying to save the shred of dignity you had left.
Dean hasn’t said anything, hasn’t moved, hell— you don’t even know if he’s breathed yet. Here you are, spilling your guts in front of him, the ones you tried so desperately to keep securely in place forever, and he’s just standing there.
“I’m s-sorry—“ you choked in another sob, unable to stop despite the embarrassment clawing at your skin, “I’m sorry— just g-go… please” you pleaded pitifully. That made him move, you closed your eyes, preparing for the sound of the slamming door, but it never came.
Instead, you were surrounded by a firm pressure, with the warmth that can only come from another body, Dean’s unique scent— the musky sweet bergamot and leather smell that you’ve become addicted to— engulfed you, the feeling of his strong arms wrapped around you finally registered in your scrambled brain.
He was hugging you, no not just hugging, he was holding you… in a way he never has before, in a way that you always secretly wished he would. You didn’t know what to do but your body reacted anyway, melting into his touch like this was normal, the moment only pulling more soft sobs out of you.
“Breathe, sweetheart” he murmured into your hair, his voice uncharacteristically vulnerable but still held that gentle authoritative tone of his. Eventually your breaths slowed, listening to him despite everything, your lungs burning and your brain screaming at you, yet you couldn’t find it in you to care. Especially when you’d registered his rough hand moving up and down your arm, the other tangled in your hair holding your head to his chest.
Another moment of silence passed before you tried to speak, “m’sorry—“ you murmured but he just shushed you, “what did I tell you about apologizing too damn much?” He murmurs, but his tone lacks the humor that statement usually holds, instead it’s still so gentle for him, like pouring honey over rough gravel.
You fought the urge to reply with an apology, instead opting for silence, but only for a moment longer.
Your head throbbed and your throat ached yet you continued, “why are you doing this?…” your voice so small and quiet, Dean's chest ached.
He hated that this was so foreign to you, hated that you felt like you had to apologize when you’d done nothing wrong, and he hated that you’ve been hurting and keeping it all in.
“Cause I want to, sweetheart” is all he could come up with, his own voice wavering just a little with emotion.
“Y-you’re not mad?…” you continue, even quieter than before.
His heart couldn’t take it, “why would I be mad?” He said, trying to still sound gentle despite the guilt crawling up his throat. Guilt for every moment he was ever a part of that made you think he’d be mad at you for something like this.
“Because I just blew everything up…” you breathed out, trying not to well up with tears all over again, you wanted to move away but you selfishly didn’t want this to end, either. You didn’t want to look him in the eyes, you didn’t want to escape his warmth, you didn’t want the moment to end, because you were already preparing how you were going to have to walk away from this, from them, from this little friendship that provided the only solace in your life.
You knew it was the beginning of the end; Dean didn’t see you that way, it would be endlessly awkward if things stayed the same, he wouldn’t be able to help you, and you’d rather walk away that make him feel obligated or guilty to try and fix things when you’re the one that fell for him, even if it feels like ripping a vital organ from your own body.
Dean didn’t know what to say, he wasn’t good at this, never has been. He feels things deeply but he’s never been allowed to express them, or share them, or talk about them, or let others share too. So he just keeps holding you, because he wants to get it right. He wants to comfort you, he wants to hear you say what you feel about him, he wants to try and tell you what he feels for you.
He’s been holding it in for months, maybe even longer, and it’s been fine. Sure, he always took a good look at you when you weren’t paying attention, and he’d make stupid jokes just to hear your laugh, or how he’d put on songs he knew you liked just to hear you quietly sing along. Sure, maybe he felt guilty for letting his eyes fall to your sparkling glossy lips and wonder what it’d be like to just kiss you. Even if he just got to do it once, it’d be enough (it probably wouldn’t be but he’d risk it anyway). But you were a little younger, less experienced, such a sweet ray of sunshine, and oh so shy, but secretly a total badass— none of that made him want you less, but it did make him want to be careful. He didn’t just want you the way he’s had other girls, he knew you didn’t deserve that, you deserved so much more than he could give you, and he’d never forgive himself if he was the one to muck you up. So, he still picked up random girls, still flirted, still kept the no-strings-attached bad boy hunter façade alive and well. You were a risk too important to take, even for the thrill-seeker he is.
But now? He knew he couldn’t keep it all in, not when you were saying things like this, not when you had tears covering your cheeks and apologies on your tongue, he couldn’t let you keep thinking this was one-sided, he couldn’t let you think you had to walk away all because you’d admitted things he’d been too chicken to say himself.
“You didn’t ruin anything” he murmured after a moment, snapping himself out of his own thoughts. Your head was still cradled to his chest, he adjusted his grip to hold you just a little closer.
You could feel the tears prickling in your eyes just at his touch, instinctively melting more into him, even if your brain calls you idiotic for doing so. Before you could retort with how he’s wrong and how your relationship has changed forever and apologize for having feelings, he’d pulled back just enough to look at you.
“Tell me about it…”
You were taken aback, your eyes puffy and your heart thumping so loud you’re sure the people in the next room could hear it. You stayed quiet for a moment, processing if you’d heard him right, but the look on his face was so earnest he didn’t need to confirm with words.
So you told him— all about it. The rings, the giggles, the house, the gorgeous kitchen, the little girl that permanently etched herself into your heart even though she doesn’t exist. You talked about the way you’d danced to music in the kitchen after bedtime and how you’d bring him sweet tea while he worked on the car, you talked about how much Layla was like him and how you adored her for it. You could’ve sworn you saw a glimmer in his eye at that.
You were soft and emotional but passionate, he’d had to tell you to keep going a couple times when you got flustered, and he’d wipe his thumb under your eye when a tear would escape. He never called you stupid or reminded you that it wasn’t real or shamed you. He just listened.
“Do you know how wrecked I was when we found you?” Dean had whispered a while later, after you ran out of things to tell him, after you’d moved to sit together, after you finally accepted he wasn’t upset with you.
You swear you could see him get a little flustered, but you were more interested by his words.
Before you could ask him what he meant, he continued, “you uh…” he looked down before meeting your eyes again, “it didn’t look good… I thought-“ he didn’t say it, instead scrubbing a hand over his stubble, but you knew what he meant.
“What I’m trying to say is—“ he paused again, just trying to find the right words even though he’s terrified. He looked in your eyes, “I don’t want you to think that this is all just one sided…” he looked so shy you almost didn’t recognize him in the moment. But his words still stopped you in your tracks.
“What do you mean?…” you asked carefully, voice barely audible, pulse accelerating within seconds. He tentatively reached over and took your hands in his, they were tough and warm and yours fit perfectly in them. You swear you almost choked on your own breath.
“I’ve uh… I’ve been trying to push it down for a while now…” his eyes flicked to yours again, and you could’ve sworn they landed on your lips for a split second, “I didn’t want to be the one to uh, mess you up I guess.”
Your brows furrowed a little at his words, unable to take your eyes off his face, giving his hand a mindless little squeeze to urge him on, or to comfort him, you don’t really know. “You’re scarin’ me” you murmured with a little nervous laugh that fell flat.
He couldn’t help the way his heart fluttered even at that, he was more far gone than he admitted to himself. One of his hands left yours, tucking a loose curl behind your ear, his thumb gently grazing your tear-stained cheek. Your breath hitching, heart beating impossibly faster.
“You don’t need to be in a dream world for me to want you” he finally admitted, voice so stupidly soft but so sincere.
Before you could pass out he continued, “now I can’t promise you a kid” that pulled an amused and shocked little chuckle out of you, “but I do know that these feelings scare the crap outta me, and I can’t let you sit here and continue to beat yourself up for this, like I don’t feel the same.”
Dead. You’re pretty sure you are— is this another djinn? Is this real, you genuinely don’t know at this point. You’re pretty sure Dean knows you’re freaking out by the look on your face, so in an attempt to confirm everything he just said, his hand by your cheek moves to your jaw. Tilting your head up with his finger, just a little, giving you enough time to stop him, and then he just kisses you.
You’re still shocked for a moment, so still that he almost pulls away, but then you just melt, eyes shut, hands reaching up to clutch themselves into his shirt. It’s better than anything he’s dreamed up, and the same goes for you. Who knew just an innocent little kiss could be so blissful.
His thumb gently caressed where it rested on your chin, smiling into the kiss as his other hand made its way into your hair. It wasn’t rough, or quick— it was soft and full of feelings they’ve both buried for far too long, his lips are soft and he can taste the minty toothpaste on your breath. You both pulled away just enough to breathe, chests rising and falling in tandem.
“You believe me now?” He murmured with that little smirk of his. Your smile widened and before he could make another sarcastic remark you pulled him in for another kiss as an answer.
