#protective dean

The only thing that made sense was the dead trees that surrounded you. The ground was black and burned, and so were the trees. All smashed to the ground with you inside the eye of the storm.

Next thing you knew, there was a bright light. You shielded your eyes from it, not daring to look directly into it for fear it would burn your eyes straight out of your skull.

When the light dimmed, there stood a man. He seemed to be in his early thirties. He was a scrawny guy, blond curls and a t-shirt with a logo of what you assumed was some kind of cartoon you hadn’t heard of. And the look he gave you was one you hadn’t seen in a long time; it was warm and welcoming.

He called your name, way too happy for what you were used to. It gave you the shivers.

“Welcome back,” he beamed awkwardly. “I must tell you I’m not used to doing this, but they tell me if I do, I will get a promotion soon, that's why. Uhm, yeah, so follow me.”

You stayed right where you were.

When the guy noticed you were not planning on going anywhere with him, he turned around. And giggled to himself. “Oh, right, sorry, I’m Milo.” Hey, scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “I was tasked to make sure your return to earth was as smooth as possible.”

—

The following months felt like you were walking on a tightrope. 

Milo kept popping in and out, going on and on about you getting closer and closer to your destiny. But the only thing you thought you were getting close to was ripping his throat out.

Your body didn’t feel like it belonged to you anymore. 

It looked like yours, and the skin felt familiar, but everything underneath felt off. The ache in your bones had become unfamiliar, and the steady beating of your heart was way too loud. It made something inside you itch. Begging you for a release

You hadn’t reached out to any of your old hunter friends. You had been gone for one and a half Earth years.

Some of them you had seen down below.

On either side of the blade.

So you did the only thing that felt appropriate.

Hunting.

You had stolen a car, stolen some weapons, and ran credit card scams like it was muscle memory. Which Milo didn’t like, but every time you did something that reminded him of the fact that you had been plucked from hell, he muttered something about the ends justifying the means. 

But he refused to tell you what the ends were.

Hunting was the only thing that made sense. The only thing that felt familiar. It quiets the noise in your head. It made you focused and sharp.

You told yourself it was different now.

For a good cause

But you were still doing the same things as you did down there.

You were still torturing demons.

Maybe Milo was right. Maybe this time, the ends did justify the means, but you had an inkling that this wasn’t at all what he was talking about.

You almost ran into ‘him’ once. You were dressed in a dark blue pencil skirt that Milo thought was way too short, and a blouse he had personally tried to button up more. But you knew that if these police officers had something to look at, they wouldn’t look twice at your fake FBI badge.

You stepped out of your car and walked towards the victim's house.

You looked around, trying to memorise the space, searching for anything out of the ordinary. You heard them before you saw them. Two male voices talking to the roommate. Asking questions that no officer of the law would ever ask.

“Was it cold?”

“Did you smell anything?”

You went stark before you found the courage to proceed.

Slow and careful.

One of the men who talked surprised you. It was like he didn’t have a caring bone in his body, and when you turned the corner to look at him, there was something slightly familiar that you couldn't place.

He was tall, with long brown hair and empty eyes. You were sure you hadn’t met him before, but there was still something. When you stepped closer, you felt like the earth disappeared from under your feet.

The world lurched.

Gone

Everything around you twisted as it disappeared. All of it flashing away in a white light.

And you fell.

There was no point at which you could hold yourself, so you staggered back, breath catching in your throat. Blade, ready before you had even thought about the motion. 

Milo sat a few steps away, with an expression that mixed pride and worry.

“What was that?!” You shouted angrily, trying to regain your footing, but feeling like puking stood you nearer.

He sprang up and lurched for you, but when you pointed your knife at him, he paused. Choosing to just smile instead.

“I can’t believe that worked!” he beamed, the worry completely melting off his face.

You wiped your hand over your face angrily. “I was on a hunt.” You sighed as you put your knife on the small table.

“Yeah, not with them you are not,” Milo said. Almost sounding authoritative.

“What are you, my dad?”

“They are not part of your path.” He said, almost too quickly. But then he muttered. “Not yet anyway.”

“So what, I can’t interact with hunters?”

Milo shrugged his shoulders. “Not those.” He said. All the usual awkwardness he possessed was completely gone. “These people will not get you where you need to go.”

Your jaw tightened. “Which is where?”

“You know I can’t tell you that. Free will and all.”

“Free will, my ass.” You scoffed. As you walked into the bathroom to change this ridiculous skirt. But when you reemerged, Milo was gone.

After that, you decided that it wasn’t worth the effort.

Every question was passed back like you were playing table tennis. And you were losing.

The hunts slowly blurred together. 

Cities changed, but every motel looked the same. Cases came and went, ghosts, demons, even a wendigo once. Milo kept appearing when it suited him. Checking up on you, making sure you were eating. He even passed you a few cases.

But sometimes it felt like he only gave you those to steer you clear of something.

You learned not to fight it.

eventually.

Years passed like that.

You noticed that slowly but surely.

Your body started feeling familiar again.

You didn’t check if your heart was beating every half an hour.

But something about the case that Milo brought this time made your heart beat faster. It made panic rise in your chest.

The first victim was found in a parking lot. 

Abandoned.

Eaten.

There wasn’t enough left to identify them properly, so they had ordered a DNA test.

You parked outside the motel room. A sleek car grabbed your attention. She was beautiful and stood out next to the cheap cars that riddled the parking lot. You took a few steps closer, and something about the piece of metal grabbed you entirely.

1967 Chevrolet Impala.

And something in your chest surged.

You stepped inside. Your eyes scan the place. The motel clerk looks up from his computer and stands up to greet you, checking you in and giving you a key.

You moved up the stairs. Passing a guy who was looking down at his phone.

The moment you saw him, it was like the world slowed down.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, with long brown hair. But his eyes were more alive than the last time you saw him.

Three years ago, he was with an older man. It was the first time Milo pulled you away from somewhere.

You stopped walking, waiting for Milo to show up.

He didn’t.

The man noticed you. A shiver runs through your spine. You smiled cordially. He nodded and walked along. 

You didn’t move.

Didn’t dare to.

Something about him made your skin prickle. 

You were here for a reason. You just knew it.

And you had a feeling Milo was somewhere giggling and kicking his feet.

—

“So what the hell is this thing?” Dean growled. He was at his last nerve. pacing the length of the motel room.

He was running out of patience.

Flesh eaten. Blood drained.

No witnesses, no prints.

Nothing.

Their first guess had been a vampire, but they hadn’t encountered many who also ate their vics. Then there was a chupacabra, but those only ate livestock. And this was way too public for a wendigo.

 So what the hell was this?

“I don’t know,” Sam muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. 

They had been on this case for days now, and the only thing that had happened was that more people died. People they could have saved. 

Sam blamed himself.

Dean also blamed Sam.

The only clear thing was that all the victims had been men. Which Sam had been relieved about, because he couldn’t stand the chance of that girl getting eaten by something that they could have saved her from.

He had seen her a few times walking up and down the hall. Always looking at him suspiciously, like he had the answers to a question she had.

They were going to the bar again tomorrow.

Ground zero.

The boys stepped out of their motel room dressed in their FBI get-up, gun holstered inside their suit jacket, and their knives hidden on the other side. 

The hairs on Dean’s neck were standing right up. Must have been post-purgatory jitters. At least that's what he blamed it on, but something in his gut was telling him that something was off.

The moment they stepped out of their motel room. His eyes crossed yours.

And everything stopped.

He knew you.

You were supposed to be dead.

He clenched his jaw. And moved before Sam even registered you. He grabbed his knife and flung it towards you. A flash of silver raced towards your face.

But you had seen him too. And your body went into survival mode.

Flashes of hell blasted through your head. Dean Winchester, piercing a knife through your abdomen, while he had you trapped on a table. Dean Winchester, begging you to make the same choice he did. Dean Winchester, giving you the worst pain you had ever felt in your entire life.

You grabbed his wrist and moved the knife away from you. The metal clattering on the ground. But it didn’t seem to stop the green-eyed hunter.

He yanked back his wrist, causing you to lose your balance. And you let him pin you to the ground.

Just like you expected, he was on top of you. Breath, fanning your cheek.

“What are you?” He bit.

And you let the small knife in your sleeve glide out. Grabbing it and pushed the blade into his side. 

He was close.

Too close.

You knew his tricks.

You had ten years to learn them.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

Sam stood behind Dean, gun in hand, safety off.

“What the hell is going on?” He barked.

Dean’s voice was very clear, “It’s her.” He said, eyes locked on yours. He hadn’t looked at you like this before. He had tried to, but he never meant it.

“She’s supposed to be dead.”

You scoffed, pushed the knife further in his ribs, just to remind him it was there. 

“That makes two of us.”

That was when Sam decided he was done. With his gun still pointed between your eyes, he grabbed a small flask out of his pocket and handed it to his brother.

“Make it three.” He mumbled. And your eyes widened at his remark.

Dean twisted the cap and sprinkled some of the liquid over your face. 

But nothing happened.

Dean had a silver knife.

Nothing.

His brows furrowed, and he looked at his brother expectantly. Sam just motioned for him to get off you.

—

You were sitting in their motel room in silence. The quiet too thick for you to even think about breaking it.

You hadn’t talked, hadn’t explained anything. Neither did they.

Dean was leaning against the kitchen counter next to the door, just staring at you. You tried to look away from him, but could feel his eyes digging holes into your skull. Sam sat between the two of you. Looking at you expectantly.

But nothing happened.

You weren’t sure what you were supposed to do, or think, or feel.

Dean Winchester was alive. You must admit you were wondering where he had gone after ten years of torture, but now… Now, 140 years have passed without him. 

Dean was looking at you like he was afraid you would disappear. Because a small part of him was. The other part felt guilty. 

You were his first.

The first person he tortured.

You also were the only one who didn’t deserve it.

But now you were a reminder for all the messed-up shit he did, the messed-up shit he thought he had left behind. But with the shit he dealt with in purgatory, Sam abandoning him, and him having to abandon Cas until a few weeks ago. You were like a fresh wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding.

But you were alive.

You were here, with him.

And he knew that he needed to say something, to ask a question, or at least apologize, but the words were stuck in his throat. 

He was stuck.

So he just kept on staring at you.

—

Your hands were bound tight above your head. Rope burns your wrist. Blood running down.

You weren’t screaming anymore. That had stopped long ago. What you were doing now was something way worse. You just looked at him with pity. You pitied him. And he couldn’t grasp why.

Dean swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the blade in his hand.

“You need to do something, sweetheart.” He called, worried about what they would do if they found out he was going soft on you.

All his other clients were screamers, beggars. And he started enjoying it. started feeling exhilarated by the pain that was once his, felt like he deserved to be in this position now, he had earned this.

But torturing you was like torturing himself.

You were a hunter, a good one. And your heart was good enough to make a deal with a demon. A demon who had switched your fate with one of a nineteen-year-old girl, who had, when she was nine, sold her soul for a puppy.

You didn’t deserve this.

But you needed to do something, needed to react. Otherwise, they would switch you out.

He begged you every day not to make him do this, to take the deal. To stand on the other side of the knife, but you had refused, not having the heart to do this to somebody else.

You were better than him.

And he was afraid you would always stay that way.

—

The silence in the room shattered harshly.

Dean’s phone rang on the kitchen counter. He let it ring for a moment, looking from you towards the plastic brick, before deciding he couldn’t avoid the world any longer.

“Agent Johnson,”

You felt the energy in the room shift as Dean looked towards his brother in alarm.

“We’ll be there in ten.”

Sam was already packed by the time Dean hung up the phone. The boys sprang into action immediately, like a well-oiled machine. “There is a body,” Dean mutters towards Sam, and you had a feeling that he didn’t want you to hear it at all. But you did, and there was nothing he could do about it now.

Sam looked at you. Hesitated for a moment, nodded, and then said something that was going to get him killed by his own brother. “We could use your help.”

—

The bar was supposed to be quiet and cozy, with wine crates nailed together to form a liquor cabinet behind the bar, mismatched chairs, and fairy lights that flicker above, illuminating the place with a soft light.

A small bar like this shouldn’t be the centre of so much death and mayhem. Nevertheless, that's what it was. And you felt it in your bones.

Something was off.

The body was behind the building, in the parking lot. Drained of blood and missing pieces of flesh. Just like all the rest.

You could feel eyes pressing against your back.

Dean was crouched before you, beside the victim, jaw tight. Sam hovered somewhere nearby, scoping out the area and talking to the sheriff.

You were looking around. Then your eyes found hers. The bartender who opened the door for you. She quickly looked away when your eyes met. And you noticed she was very aware that you were still looking at her. 

Slow, careful movements, too rigid to be natural.

Dean cursed before he stood up and turned to you. His jaw was still clenched. He followed your eyes towards the girl.

Who had flinched when Dean cursed, dropping the glass.

It was barely noticeable.

But you were trained to notice exactly those things.

“Guess, that's good luck,” she muttered before getting down to clean up the glass shards.

Something in your gut twisted. You didn’t smile, didn’t move.

“What?” He muttered. You ignored him. instead choosing to step inside the bar and talk to the woman. Dean followed you inside, and you wondered if it was instinct or a trust issue.

“This can’t be good for business,” you told her. She looked up at you.

“You could say that,” she mutters, a polite smile on her face that didn’t reach her eyes.

—

Books, papers, and news articles were scattered across the floor. Sam was buried deep inside a book at the table, lips softly moving as he read the text.

His brother, on the other hand, was walking a path into the carpet, pacing back and forth. A familiar look on his face, the look he gets when he disagrees with something.

“This is stupid,” he mutters, “We have been at this for days.”

“Well, we’ve missed something!” Sam barks, done with the antics of his brother.

Dean drags a hand across his face and lets himself fall on the bed next to you.

You hadn’t said a word. Just listened, watched.

“So what have we got?” you try.

Dean answers you.

“blood drained.”

“Flesh eaten,” you counter automatically. Sam pingpoining between the two of you.

“No witnesses.”

“all men”

You and Dean fall silent for a moment. You look at him for a beat. He is slumped over, hands buried in his face.

“It doesn't feel random,” he begins.

“targeted.” You correct. Dean looks at you, recognition crosses his face. Not because he knows you, but he understands the way you think.

Sam sits up straighter. “Okay, so we have a monster that eats human flesh and drinks their blood, feeds on men, and blends in.”

“Not a vamp,” Dean says.

“Not a wendigo,” you add.

Another beat.

You look at the pieces of paper on the floor like they are pieces of a puzzle, but you have no idea what the final picture is supposed to be.

“Something that lures them.” You and Dean say in unison. You shift your eyes towards him, not daring to look at him directly. But he is looking at you. And you look away a bit too late, he caught you. Dean lets out a quiet huff.

Sam starts flipping pages, and you walk towards him, Dean's eyes following your every move.  “What have you got?” You ask Sam, and he starts listing monsters that fit the description.

Then something crosses your mind, The bartender, Dean’s big mouth, the fallen glass.

“Anything that hates cursing?”

Sam stills for a second.

But he is turning pages again when Dean joins you at the table. Standing close to you, looking over your shoulder. And your mind can’t help but flip to the last time he was this close to you.

Blood red walls.

Dean apologizing in your ear.

The knife against your cheek.

You take a step back. Before Dean starts talking. “I was hunting with dad, years ago, you were at Stanford.” He begins, brows furrowed. “It was Greek, a shapeshifter.”

Sam taps on the page before speaking. “An Empusa.”

Silence settles over the room, and you are to focussed on Dean's hands that are just inches away from yours. Your mind is torn. Equally as scared and excited about Dean being this close again.

Sam exhales sharply. “They appear as women and lure men to their deaths.”

“And what? We cuss at them until their head explodes?” You counter, making Dean let out an amused huff. “Wouldn’t that be something?” 

His eyes met yours, to direct, to close.

Your jaw clenched, and it took everything in you not to look away. 

“Decapitation works wonders.”

—

The storage shed connected to the bar was cramped, crowded with liquor bottles, boxes of nuts, and cleaning supplies stacked nearly to the ceiling. Dean had unlocked the outside door so you could slip in unnoticed and keep an eye on Sam through the narrow opening leading into the bar.

The problem was that the space was barely big enough for one person.

Which meant Dean was pressed almost flush against your back.

He was warm and solid.

Different from what he was down there.

You tilted your head to him, looking at him in the corner of your eyes, trying to remain inconspicuous. And that look he had, the way he looked out of his eyes, that you did recognize.

He was focused, calculated, but when you really looked, there was something deeper, worry.

You knew that look all too well.

The room smelled like whiskey and damp wood.

The room smelled like hell.

You didn’t want to think about it. Not thinking about it had come easier to you, but Dean had dragged all those memories back up, not that they had ever really left.

A shiver ran down your spine. Dean looked down.

“You good?”

All you could do was nod. Dean’s fist clenched around the knife in his hand like he knew.

And you noticed the placement of it.

It was not in his dominant hand.

It was in the hand furthest away from you.

That did something to you. It loosened some of the tension you felt deep in your stomach. Because after all this time, he still tried to protect you, still tried to keep you out of harm's way as much as he could. And you couldn’t help but wonder if this was just Dean being Dean or Dean being around you.

You took a deep breath, trying to focus back on the case, on the monster on the other side of the wall.

But all you could do was focus on the man standing beside you. The man with white knuckles and a clenched jaw. 

You looked up at him, pressing your nails into the palm of your hand nervously. You hummed a slightly off-key version of Until It Sleeps by Metallica.

Dean's eyes widened, and he immediately relaxed his jaw. He looked at you, and your eyes locked.

Dean didn’t smile at you, didn’t say anything. 

He didn’t have to.

When you pulled your eyes back to the bar, Sam was still sitting alone at one of the barstools, nursing a beer, putting some peanuts in his mouth. But when you looked further, something felt wrong.

Quiet.

The door at your back opened slowly, but you and Dean turned around instantly, Dean shifting the knife in his other hand. Neither of you moved, but you were sure Dean felt your heartbeat against his arm. He had positioned himself before you, and you weren’t sure if it was deliberate or not.

But instead of the sly cunning woman you expected, a woman stumbled in with her head down, breathing rapidly, a small drop of blood fell from her mouth, and something about her was eerily familiar. Dean fell rigid; he thought the same thing.

Her hand was still on the doorknob, hanging onto it as if it were the only thing holding her upright. Dean seemed to relax a little, but the way he did it seemed more like confusion than true relaxation.

When the woman looked up at Dean, you were sure your heart stopped beating. It was you, your face, your body, thinner as if your bones were carved out from starvation. There were scars on your collarbone, a gash on your eyebrow, and a slight trickle of blood from your lips.

And for a second, Dean wasn’t in the storage room anymore, he was down there. Blood covering your mouth, wrist raw from the ropes covering your skin. And you were looking at him, tired. Never scared, and that made it worse somehow. 

He could almost see your blood against his knife and feel the way it would slice your skin. It made him sick. He could hear his voice apologising against your hair, so only you would hear.

And hear you did.

You heard him whispering before you, and when he took a step forward, you grabbed his wrist. The contact seemed to startle him, and he snapped out of it. The storage room slammed back into focus, and for a horrible second, he looked at you like he wasn’t sure which version of you was real.

Dean blinked, and you saw the doubt in his eyes.

There were two of you, one standing in front of Dean, one standing by the door. Same face, same voice, same bloodshot eyes. He opened his mouth just to close it again, not really knowing how he should proceed.

He knew if his father saw him now, he would be ashamed.

And at the same time you spoke. Called his name.

You spoke to him with determination, with that same stubborn resolve you always carried.

Strong.

Certain.

The other you, trembled on her legs, a quiver in her voice as she called his name.

There was fear in her eyes. Real fear. Not of the monster.

Of him

And without hesitating, Dean swung his knife and beheaded the you in front of him, who screamed and fell to the floor in a heap of smoke.

You looked at him, surprised. You were sure that he doubted who you were two seconds ago, so what made him choose? And like he could read your thoughts, Dean answered.

“You were never scared of me, not even when you looked like that.”

And you looked at him, baffled, mouth slightly ajar, and suddenly you were happy that the storage closet was dark, because maybe, just maybe, it would hide the heat currently spreading across your cheeks.

The quiet was broken by the familiar sound of wings.

People started clamoring and walking out of the bar panicked, but too scared to make any real noise.

The music cut out, and Dean turned towards the bar, opening the door and moving ahead of you, shoulders wide, knife still in his hand.

In the middle of the bar stood a man with black hair and a tan trench coat. He was holding someone like a father who had just caught his son rummaging through his desk drawer. Milo was looking between the man and Sam awkwardly, giggling to try to cut away the tension. It didn’t work.

But when he saw you and Dean leaving the cramped storage space together, the smile on his face grew to one of admiration.

The man who was holding Milo looked between the three of you.

“Sam, Dean.” His low voice sounded by matter of greeting, but then he called your name, and you stilled, slightly panicked.

Dean turned towards you, but the look he gave you wasn’t the protective Dean he had been all day, he was surprised, curious. But when he noticed you stopped moving, and your breath was high in your chest, the protectiveness returned, and he turned towards the man again.

That's when Milo pulled his hand up and waved at you. An awkward smile on his face and a way too high “hi” came out. which he immediately tried to cover up with a cough, but it didn’t really work. He tried to talk again, something about how this whole encounter was above his pay grade, but Dean cut him off.

“Cas?” He said sharply, and the man in the trenchcoat, Cas, turned towards him. His grip is still on Milo.

Cas’s eyes were on Dean now, fully. But you still felt terribly seen, and you didn’t have a good grasp on why. 

“She wasn’t meant to be here under this configuration.”

Sam looked at him with his eyes furrowed, and Dean's annoyance grew. “Cas, we talked about this.” He spat, “English.”

Cas rolled his eyes and sighed at the older Whinchester. “She wasn’t meant to be here yet.” He said as he was looking at you again, then at Milo.

“Right. So… I might’ve slightly interfered with the schedule.” He said the same awkward tremble in his voice, and you resist smacking your hand against your forehead. That guy had a real knack for making a bad situation even worse.

But contrary to what you thought would happen, Dean slowed down. He seemed to take a breath, and his shoulders weren’t as rigid as they had been before.

He wanted to look at you, to look at what you thought of this revelation, because he couldn’t find anything wrong with an angel pulling you out of that ratchet place too early.

If you had been pulled out 5 seconds from entering, it would have been too late.

His eyes softened when you looked at him, and you swore he looked grateful.

Cas saw it too

Unfortunately.

“This isn’t about that,” he told Milo before looking at Dean, and Cas and Dean shared looks that were like a quiet conversation. The grateful expression vanished from Dean's eyes, and the protective hunter act was back. Although you knew it wasn’t an act at all, this was just Dean.

“Oh come on,” Milo whined, “She would have been so damaged otherwise.”

Dean balled his fist, and he turned to look at you through the corner of his eyes. This wasn’t just about pulling you out of hell anymore, this was something bigger.

“That wasn’t your decision to make.” Cas accused Milo.

Milo’s smile faltered. “I made sure  she ended up where she needed to be.”

Cas’s eyes sharpened, while Dean's knuckles turned white, like he knew what was about to come to light.

“You interfered beyond extraction.”

Milo hesitated, and in hindsight, he would probably think he had acted irrationally right there, but that was also completely in character, so he didn’t really mind.

His words were too fast. And you knew that if Dean was holding anything, and you meant anything, it would have broken into a million different pieces, while Milo sputtered out the words “No… no, you don’t understand. If she comes out too late, he doesn’t make it through what comes next.

It was like a bomb went off in the Bar, everything froze, Sam stopped pingponing between Cas and Milo, and is now looking at Dean.

Dean is looking at Cas like he holds the answers to the universe.

And Cas, Cas exhales. This wasn’t going the way he planned it would. Nothing about this was going the way they planned it.

“That is not relevant to the extraction protocol,” He says.

And Milo loses it. “ Not relevant!” he yells as he janks himself away from Cas. Dean takes a step towards him. And there is a sort of glow surrounding Milo. “Not relevant? That was the whole point!” He yells again as the glow seems to get brighter, getting more compact.

“Cas.” Dean begins wearily.” “What does he mean?” He asks as the glow seems to grow unstable. He looks at you with panic striking his features before looking back at Milo. Whose eyes have turned bright white.

“I did it for you!”

The lights in the bar flickered violently.

Milo’s voice didn’t sound awkward anymore.

It sounded ancient.

“You think I wanted her to stay there?” he asked sharply. “You think I was going to leave her in Hell long enough for it to hollow her out completely?”

Dean took a step forward, jaw tight.

“No, you don’t get to decide what she suffers for me.” 

The lights surrounding you flicker.

“You selfish prick.” Milo bites. And bottles around you snap in half, glass trickling down the floor, cheap liquor spilling between the cracks.

“Without each other, you all die.” 

And with that last sentence, the lights around Milo explode. The windows crash, glass shatters, and you and Dean crash against the bar. Something sharp scraping against your skin.

Then silence. The ringing is getting quieter gradually. Through the rubble, you hear him.

Soft.

Familiar.

Caring.

“You okay, sweetheart?”

Somewhere in the corner of the room, Sam pulls himself up on one of the booths. Milo looks around at the disaster he caused and turns back into the awkward angel you have known him as. “I am,” he starts, voice quiet and breathy. “I’m so sorry.” And with that, he is gone.

Sam looks at Cas and lets out a breath. “What the hell was he, some kind of cupid turned guardian angel?” He says both to resolve the tension still in the air and because he truthfully has no idea what just happened.

Cas just looks at him. “Well, yes, actually.” he looks between Dean and you, then back to Sam. “Actually, that is quite accurate.”

“What, like Cinderella?” Dean counters, and you can’t help but let out a quiet laugh, which turns into a groan the moment you feel your muscles churn against your ribs. Dean turns towards you immediately. You smile at him to signal that everything is okay.

“I don’t know who that is,” Cas says as you try to stand up. But the moment you are upright, the room tilts, and Dean's arms are around you as soon as it does. Guiding you to a booth. When Cas suggests he can heal you, you decline. “Enough angel interference for today.”

Sam and Cas leave the Bar, or what is left of it. So that leaves you and Dean sitting in a booth together, it was quiet except for the shallow breathing you both did. Although the way Dean was looking at you while you cleaned your cut was loaded.

He was looking at your movements. The way you didn’t seem to notice the pain, or worse, that you weren’t bothered by it anymore. He watched the way your fingers were precise and efficient, like it wasn’t you they were working on.

He watched you grab a broken bottle of whiskey and then pour the contents over the equipment out of the first aid kit he found in the corner of the bar. Whiskey was poured over the blade, the tweezers, over you.

You moved like it was a ritual. 

Dean frowned slightly. Something about it felt familiar. You sat down in the chair near the lamp and began stitching the cut yourself without hesitation. Needle through skin. Pull. Tie.

Your face didn’t even twitch.

Dean’s stomach turned.

“You should let me do that,” he muttered quietly.

You glanced up briefly. “It’s fine.”

And something in your tone didn’t sit right with him. You were flat and controlled. It was the exact tone you had used in hell time and time again. Every time he asked if you were fine, if you were okay, you had said it like that. He didn’t believe it then, and it broke something inside of him now.

Dean looked away for a second, jaw tightening.

“You always do that?”

“Hm?”

“The whiskey.”

You blinked while shaking your head lightly in surprise.

“Yeah?”

Dean swallowed hard. He remembered, he remembered everything, probably better than you did, the blood on your body, the cuts, his hands shaking so badly he almost dropped the knife. And he remembered the aftermath, the way he needed to patch you up because he couldn’t stand looking at what he had done to you.

Sometimes he wondered if the demons knew, if Alistair knew.

If he knew that he wasn’t exactly torturing you, but that he let it slip, because he also knew it was torture for him.

And when he did, stitch you up, he had used whiskey, not once, not twice, every time. Like a ritual. For both the sterilization and courage. Because it was the only mercy he could give you.

Dean stared at the bottle in your hand now.

And suddenly the room felt too small.

“You remember that?” he asked quietly.

You paused mid-stitch.

The silence answered for you.

Dean stood abruptly, running a hand over his mouth.

“Dean—”

“That’s from me.”

His voice cracked sharp enough to cut glass.

Your brows furrowed immediately. “What?”

“The way you move, the way you patch yourself up, the torture.” He laughed once, bitter and horrified. “Hell, even the damn whiskey.”

“Dean.”

“That’s me.”

The words came quieter that time. Like he finally understood something he didn’t want to.

“You survived because you adapted to that place, and I…” his breath hitched slightly, “I taught you how.”

You stood quickly despite the half-stitched wound.

“No.”

Dean shook his head immediately. And you knew he was spiraling, knew you needed him to stop, to face you, to face your truth. Not the truth he had written for you. Wasn’t that why he had been angry in the first place? Because heaven had written their truth?

You stepped closer carefully now, like approaching a wounded animal.

“You think I survived because you tortured me?”

Dean couldn’t look at you.

“I survived because you cared if I did.”

That struck something in Dean's chest, a cord he didn’t know was there. But you weren’t done striking chords, hell, you would play guitar with his heart strings if that was what he needed.

“You wanna know what I remember?” you asked softly. Dean’s eyes finally lifted toward yours. “I remember you stitching me back together after.”

His face crumpled slightly. But you weren’t done. “I remember you begging me to hate you because it would've made it easier for you.”

Another step closer.

“I remember you teaching me how to survive long enough to get through the next day.”

Dean looked wrecked now. Not because you accused him, but because you didn’t.

“Dean, you gave me a reason to keep going.”

And that line broke him. He looked up at you, eyes raw with resolution. And before you even registered what was happening, he pressed his lips against yours. Your eyes flew wide, cheeks turning embarrassingly red, before melting against him. 

You felt his warm lips against yours like a resolution.

Something tight in your chest finally loosened. 

When he kissed you, it didn’t feel like he was fixing something, it felt like he was promising you you didn’t have to do it alone anymore. Like, both of you were making sure the other was real. 

When Dean pulled away, you held in a small whine.

He rested his forehead against yours. “I’m still mad that you didn’t take my place back then.” He said with a small smile on his lips.

“Hey.” You started. “It was my way of staying in control,” you said as you returned his smile. “Driver picks the music, remember.” You giggled

He smirked at you. “I’ll shut my cakehole then.”

You look up at him, “Yeah, you really should.” You say before connecting your lips with his once more.

I'm so happy with this! I think I have been brooding on this for at least two months! I am really happy with the way it turned out! So I would love for you to tell me what you thought!

Also, I couldn't find a good gif for this for the life of me, so if you know a good gif, feel free to reblog it with that!!!

The familiar scent of leather seats and Dean’s sweat filled the cramped backseat of the Impala. Moonlight filtered through the dusty windows, illuminating the frantic movement of your bodies. His hips pistoned against yours, the rhythm desperate and hungry. Your fingers dug into the worn leather of the seat beneath you, arching to meet every powerful thrust. Moans, low and breathless, escaped both of you, lost in the heat and friction. His lips trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down your neck, his breath ragged against your damp skin.

It was perfect. He was perfect. Dean Winchester, rough and tender, focused entirely on you. His hand slid down your side, possessive and claiming, fingers brushing the curve of your hip bone. A familiar jolt of pleasure shot through you, sharp and bright.

Then, it happened.

His thumb pressed firmly against that sensitive spot on your hipbone – exactly where he used to dig his fingers in, hard enough to bruise, a silent reminder of control during moments meant for surrender. A memory, sharp as shattered glass, ripped through the haze of pleasure.

Not Dean. Him. The cold eyes, the mocking laugh, the feeling of being trapped beneath a weight that wasn't just physical.

A choked gasp tore from your throat, instantly different from the moans of seconds before. The heat flooding your veins turned icy. The pleasure vanished, replaced by a terrifying wave of panic that crashed over you, stealing your breath. Your body went rigid beneath Dean’s.

"Hey? Wha—?" Dean froze mid-thrust, his head snapping up. His eyes, dark with desire moments ago, widened in alarm. He saw the tears welling, spilling over instantly, tracking hot paths down your temples into your hair. He saw the tremors starting in your shoulders, vibrating through your entire frame. Your whimpers weren't of pleasure anymore; they were raw, frightened sounds escaping a tight throat.

Panic flared in his own eyes, sharp and immediate. "Shit! Baby.. Did I hurt you? Did I—?" He scrambled backwards off you faster than you thought possible, pulling himself out with a slick sound that felt horribly loud in the sudden silence. He knelt beside you on the seat, hands hovering, afraid to touch. "Talk to me, sweetheart! What happened? Did I do something?"

You tried to shake your head, but the movement was jerky, uncontrolled. You were shaking violently now, trapped in the suffocating grip of the past. Tears streamed freely, your breath coming in ragged, shallow hitches. "N-no," you managed to stammer, the word thick with tears. "N-not you... Dean... I-I'm sorry... I'm s-so sorry..." Shame washed over you, hot and sickening. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to will the panic away, to bury it back down where it belonged. "J-just... give me... a minute... I'll be okay... then... then you can..." You couldn't even finish the sentence, gesturing weakly towards him, implying he could finish what he'd started.

Dean stared at you. Utterly still. The frantic worry in his eyes hardened into something else. Disbelief. Then, a slow, dawning fury. Not at you. Never at you. His jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle jump.

"No." The word was low, rough, absolute. It cut through your panicked whimpers.

You blinked, tears blurring your vision. Confusion pierced the fog of panic. He wasn't impatiently shifting his weight. He wasn't glancing down at his own obvious arousal with frustration. He was focused entirely on you, kneeling beside you in the cramped space, his expression fierce with protectiveness.

"Wh- what?" you whispered, sniffing, utterly bewildered by his reaction.

He leaned forward then, carefully, deliberately. One large, calloused hand cupped your cheek, his thumb gently wiping away a tear track. The other arm slid beneath your shoulders, pulling you firmly but infinitely gently against his bare chest. His skin was hot, his heartbeat a rapid drum against your ear. He tucked your head under his chin, his lips brushing your hairline.

"Why the hell," he growled, his voice thick with an emotion you couldn't name, "would you ever think I give a damn about finishing right now?" He pulled back just enough to look down into your tear-streaked face. His green eyes burned with intensity. "Look at me. Really look."

You did. You saw no anger directed at you. No impatience. Only fierce, unwavering concern and a simmering rage directed at ghosts.

"I don't know what kind of world-class, grade-A douchebags you've been tangled up with before," he continued, his voice dropping lower, rougher, vibrating with suppressed fury. "But listen to me, and listen good. That?" He gestured vaguely back towards the space where your bodies had been joined moments ago. "That ain't expected of you. Ever. Not finishing me off, not pretending you're okay when you're clearly not, not pushing through some goddamn panic attack just so I get mine." His hand tightened gently on your shoulder. "That ain't okay. That's never okay. Especially not with me."

He searched your eyes, his own softening slightly, though the protective fire still burned bright. "You think I could enjoy myself," he murmured, his thumb stroking your cheek again, "knowing you were hurting? Knowing you were scared? Knowing you were forcing yourself?" He shook his head slowly, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "Hell no. Not happening."

The raw sincerity in his voice, the sheer disbelief that you'd even suggest he'd prioritize his own release over your distress, started to chip away at the icy panic gripping you.

The shaking began to lessen, the frantic gasps easing into deeper, shuddering breaths. You buried your face against his chest again, inhaling the familiar scent of him – gun oil, cheap soap, Dean – a grounding anchor in the storm.

"I... I didn't mean..." you mumbled into his skin, the shame still present but now mixed with a dawning sense of profound relief.

"Shhh," he soothed, his arms tightening around you, enveloping you completely. He rested his chin on top of your head. "Just breathe, sweetheart. Just breathe. We're done. We're done* with that. You're safe. I got you." His hand rubbed slow, comforting circles on your back. "Take all the time you need. All of it. We ain't movin' until you're ready."

The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was filled with the sound of your slowing breaths, his steady heartbeat, and the profound sense of being sheltered. The frantic heat of moments ago was replaced by a different kind of warmth – the deep, encompassing warmth of being utterly cherished and protected. Dean Winchester, the hardened hunter, held you with a tenderness that felt more intimate than anything that had come before, abandoning everything else without a second thought, simply because you needed him to. The tears still fell, but they were quieter now, washing away the panic, leaving behind a shaky exhaustion and the overwhelming, comfort of his unwavering presence.