#spnseries

『••✎••』

Waking up to a shadow in the middle of the night, especially when you were staying in a motel that was miles away from any civilization, was never a good thing. Especially when you could feel it even before opening your eyes, its presence heavy on the air. It made your senses scream and your heart race.

The feeling of being watched and studied was not something a normal person would like to wake up to, and as you lay there in bed with your eyes closed, that feeling struck you right into your core, making your muscles tense. Adding into the fact of the complete awareness of the supernatural world you were a part of, that was just the cherry on top of the cake.

But as you lay there, your brain going at 100 miles an hour, you realize this instance wasn’t one of those life-threatening situations you were so used to. It was an oddly comforting feeling as the flashlight you flew into the darkness was caught in the hands of someone you trusted with your life, the same hands that have touched every inch of your body in a way you could never forget.

He had been hunting all night, you could tell. Although it was dark, and only the soft glow from the motel sign illuminated the room, you knew his clothes were covered in dirt and leaves, and his hair was a mess. He didn't care, though, as he walked closer to you, his eyes becoming clear as he turned the flashlight on.

Sam had a tendency to get into these moods. A mood where he needed something to ground him and remind him that the life he was living was worth fighting for. You had always been that thing for him, his anchor, and as he approached the bed, his mind was racing with everything and nothing all at once.

As he sat down on the edge of the bed, his large hands reached out, touching you softly. It wasn’t sexual; he had no interest in that right now. He was looking for comfort. He just needed you.

You sighed, pulling yourself up from your position on the bed to get a better look at him. His eyes were tired and glistened over with some sort of sadness that he tried to keep hidden from you, but he knew he couldn’t. The tears reflected the moonlight that shined through the blinds and through the flashlight, and although the shadows under his eyes were more prominent than usual, he still looked at you with the most love you could imagine.

You didn't have to ask him why he was here, why he had been gone all night. You knew. He was a creature of habit, and Sam was very good at reading people. He knew when you were at your weakest when you needed him the most, and you did the same for him.

He needed reassurance. He needed to know he was doing the right thing, or else the guilt and shame would eat him alive. So when he saw the soft expression on your face, the gentle smile, and the look in your eyes, he nodded. It was soft, barely noticeable, but you saw it.

“You scared me.” You said, reaching forward to take his hand in yours. The flashlight was still clutched tightly in his other hand, the light shining up at the ceiling.

He sighed, squeezing your hand and looking away. It was silent for a moment before you felt him shift. The mattress moved slightly under his weight as he scooted closer, his eyes meeting yours once more.

Without a word, he reached forward, the hand that had been holding the flashlight coming up to rest on the side of your face. You leaned into his touch, the roughness of his hand feeling nice against your soft skin. He ran his thumb over your cheek before moving to cup the back of your head.

He was slow, almost hesitant, and you gave him a reassuring smile. You loved this man more than anything, and the gentle kisses he placed on your forehead and cheeks were the most tender of moments. You felt your heart swell as he finally kissed your lips, his hand moving from the back of your head to wrap around you, pulling you closer.

He let the flashlight fall to the floor, the loud thud it made against the carpet going unnoticed. You felt his lips tremble slightly, his emotions getting the best of him as he deepened the kiss. You wrapped your arms around him, tangling your fingers in his hair as you pulled him closer.

It wasn’t long before he pulled away, just slightly, his breath warm against your lips. Now you saw the blood, the bruises, and the cuts covering his face. He didn’t seem to care about them, but you did. It broke your heart, knowing that he had spent all night killing monsters and demons just to keep you safe. To keep everyone safe.

He let out a sigh, a long, hard breath as if he had been holding it in forever. Relief, the kind that came after a good cry or after a bad case of the flu was gone, washed over his face, and you could see the tension leave his shoulders. He leaned forward, resting his head on your shoulder, his arms tightening around you.

“I know,” He spoke, his voice cracking slightly. His tone was soft, his lips brushing against your ear. You shivered, rubbing your hands over his back. “I’m sorry, I just.. I needed- I needed to make sure that you were okay. That we were okay. It just... It gets overwhelming, and with what happened to Jess-”

You shushed him, turning to place a kiss on his temple. He sighed again, his breath tickling the side of your neck. His scent surrounded you, a mix of dirt and sweat and a hint of gunpowder. Dean’s presence was there, too, a bit of cologne and beer mixed into the air.

You didn't need to know where Dean was. You were pretty sure he had been on a hunt with Sam, and now he was at a bar, trying to get over his demons. The two brothers were so closely similar and yet so different, but in moments like this, where they were both torn down to their core, you could see the resemblance.

The two of them had a lot of things in common, but their biggest similarity was their stubbornness. They refused to ask for help, and they were afraid to show weakness, especially in front of each other.

Dean was off, drinking his worries away, while Sam came to you. A pattern the two had developed.

You had met the brothers in a motel very similar to the one you were in now. You were there for a simple vacation, a break from all the stresses of your life, but things changed when you were woken up to the sounds of gunshots and glass breaking.

Dean had burst into your room, dragging you out with him. He was a smart guy, and although he had no clue who you were, he knew you were in danger. He had gotten into a fight with a… well, it didn’t matter what it was; all that mattered was that the thing had a taste for human flesh.

You and Sam had bonded instantly, and Dean wasn't too far behind. It was the start of a beautiful friendship despite the poor circumstances. After a year of being around each other, helping each other out with whatever situation came, the three of you became closer than you ever thought possible. A little more with Sam, of course.

So, now, when Sam comes to you late at night, needing you, needing reassurance, you don’t hesitate. You give him all that he needs and more, and when he holds you close, his body trembling and his words shaky, you know it was the right decision.

His grip on you tightened, pulling you into him. You let him, holding him just as close, your hands gently running up and down his back. You could feel the fabric of his shirt under your fingertips, and the heat from his skin radiated through.

After a moment, he pulled back, his eyes searching yours. You could tell he was worried about Dean, about you, about the whole situation. He was afraid of what was coming, and although he didn’t know it, his fears were valid.

There was a lot to come, and it wasn’t going to be easy. The two of you had been through a lot, and although you didn't regret it, the thought of something happening to him was enough to drive you crazy.

You were about to say something, but the words never left your mouth. He was kissing you again, the force much stronger than the last, his hands gripping your arms tightly. It was an amazing kiss, filled with all the passion and love he had for you, and as he moved you, pushing you onto the bed, you felt his desperation.

It wasn’t a desperate need for sex, but a desperate need to be close to you. You knew this, and as you tangled your fingers into his hair, kissing him just as desperately, you knew he needed you more than anything. Who cared if you ended up losing more sleep than normal? Who cared if the sun came up and Dean returned to the room, finding the two of you still tangled up together in a mess of sheets? Who cared if the world was coming to an end and this was the last time the two of you would ever see each other?

He needed you, and as he whispered your name, his voice cracking with emotion, you knew he had no plans of letting you go. Not now, not ever. And when Dean did pop up a few hours later with messy hair and his shirt on backward, he would take a single glance and walk right back out the door, knowing he was going to be okay.

The bunker was quiet when you got home, a striking difference from the chaos of the mall you had just battled through.

Between the crowds, the pushy salespeople, and that one cashier who acted like scanning your items was super inconvenient, you were exhausted.

All you wanted now was a long hot shower and to curl up in bed with your boyfriend when he got back.

You set the shopping bags on the bed before heading to the bathroom, sighing in relief as the warm water washed away the tension of the day.

You were halfway through your shower when the sound of heavy boots echoed off the tile, followed by a soft knock. A second later, the curtain pulled back just enough for Dean’s smirking face to peek through.

“Mmm, hey, sweetheart.” He grinned, his eyes shamelessly roaming your body.

You rolled your eyes, fighting the blush creeping up your cheeks. “Hey, baby. How was the hunt?”

He sat on the edge of the tub, running a hand through his hair. “Longer than expected but we got the job done. What about you? How was your day, did you go out?”

You hummed, rinsing the shampoo from your hair. “Mmhmm. I did a little shopping. Got you something—it’s in the bag on the bed.”

His eyebrows lifted in interest and surprise. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Go check it out while I finish up.”

After finishing up, you pulled on your robe and made your way to the bedroom, expecting to find Dean grinning like a kid on Christmas.

Instead, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, his head bowed, staring at the plaid shirts laid out in front of him. The whiskey bottle sat unopened beside them. His hands rested on his knees, fingers curled like he didn’t quite know what to do with them.

Your smile faded. He didn’t look happy—he looked stunned. Maybe even… sad?

You frowned, quickly making your way to him and sitting beside him. Your hand covered his, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “You okay?”

He nodded quickly, but his voice wavered. “Y-Yeah. I just…” He exhaled, shaking his head. “This is for me?”

You narrowed your eyes, watching as his forced grin slowly faded. “Dean, what’s wrong? You don’t like them? That’s totally fine, I can return them—”

“What? No!” His head snapped up, eyes wide. “I love them. It’s not that.”

You tilted your head. “Then what is it? Because you look like someone just kicked your puppy.”

Dean sighed heavily, his shoulders rising and falling like he was carrying a weight he didn’t know how to put down. He turned to face you, his hands hesitantly reaching for yours, but his head stayed low, like he couldn’t quite meet your eyes.

"I just... why did you buy me all this?" His voice was quieter than usual, rough around the edges, as he gestured toward the plaid and whiskey behind him.

You blinked, glancing at the items before looking back at him. "Well, your plaid got ruined, and I figured you could use some more… And I noticed you were running low on whiskey, so I thought a new bottle might be nice."

He let out a slow, shaky breath, his head dropping even lower. "No, I mean... why would you do this for me?"

Your heart clenched at the way he said it—so soft, so unsure, like he genuinely couldn’t comprehend the answer.

You reached out, fingertips brushing under his chin, gently tilting his face up to yours. "Because I love you."

Dean’s lips parted slightly, his green eyes searching yours like he was looking for some kind of explanation, something that made sense in his world. "But… I don’t get it. It’s not my birthday. It’s not our anniversary. You didn’t owe me this."

“Dean,” you said gently, lifting his chin so he had to look at you. “You don’t have to earn love. You don’t have to wait for a reason. I did this because I love you.”

He stayed quiet, jaw tensing, eyes fixed on the flannels like they were something rare and fragile.

"Dean," you murmured, squeezing his hands. "Talk to me. What’s going on?"

"I…" He swallowed hard, struggling to find the words. "No one’s ever done this for me. Not unless it was for a reason, or because I asked. No one’s ever just… wanted to."

Your heart clenched. There it was—the reason he was struggling, the reason he looked so lost. Dean Winchester, who gave and gave until there was nothing left of him, had never had someone do the same without expecting something in return. And now that someone had, he didn’t know how to accept it. He didn’t think he deserved it.

"But I do. I wanted to."

He smiles a little sadly, still processing the information.

“You take care of me, right?” you continued. “You buy me coffee, make sure I eat, kill the spiders I pretend I don’t see.” That got a small huff of laughter from him. “So let me take care of you too. No reason needed.”

His breath hitched slightly, and for a second, he just stared at you, like he was trying to memorize your face. Then, without a word, he pulled you into a hug so tight it nearly knocked the wind out of you.

"This means more to me than I can ever explain, Sweetheart," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Thank you."

You hugged him just as tight, running your hand up and down his back. “Of course, babe. You deserve it.”

After a few moments, you pulled back with a playful smile and grabbed one of the shirts. “So, do you like them?”

His smile widened as he took them from your hands. "Are you kidding? I love them. Especially this black and white one—that looks badass."

"Then c’mon, fashion show time!"

Dean chuckled, rolling his eyes, but there was no hesitation as he shrugged off his jacket and pulled on the new plaid. When he turned back to you, leaning against the dresser, you couldn't help but stare.

"Whoa," you breathed, eyes trailing over him. “I knew it would look good, but that’s just unfair.”

Dean smirked, waggling his brows. “Oh, I know.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Alright, now how about we get drunk and watch a movie?”

Dean pressed a quick kiss to your forehead. "Sounds perfect. But first—" He grabbed the other shirts and smirked. "I gotta show Sammy these. He’s gonna be so jealous."

Before you could say a word, he was already heading down the hall.

"Sammy!" he called, his voice echoing through the bunker. "Where are you? I gotta show you why you need to get a girlfriend!"

Laughter bubbled up in your chest as you flopped back onto the bed, shaking your head. That man.

Dean Winchester deserved love—the kind that didn't have to be earned, the kind that just was. And you were going to keep proving it to him, every single day.

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!

It had only been a week, and already, it was complicated.

One week of dating Dean Winchester, and you were losing your mind-not because the relationship was bad, but because it was too perfect.

From the moment you met, you fell hard. He told you he had too. And when you finally confessed your feelings, it had been effortless, like the universe had been waiting for it to happen.

But love, even when perfect, can be complicated.

Because your love language was touch.

Some people gave gifts, some used words, and others showed love through acts of service. But you? You needed the physical connection-the warmth of a hand on yours, a casual touch on the arm, a touch just to feel close.

And as sweet as that might sound, not everyone saw it that way.

Your past relationships had made that painfully clear.

They thought it was too much. Too needy. Too clingy.

They didn’t like that you always wanted to hold their hand on walks. That you wanted to cuddle even in the middle of a summer heatwave. That your fingers would drift to their arm at dinner. That, even in sleep, your hand always found them—like your heart wouldn’t settle until it knew they were still there.

So you learned to hold back. To resist the urge. To keep your hands to yourself unless touch was initiated.

But with Dean, it was different.

Because you had never loved anyone like you loved him. And you weren’t about to ruin it by being too much.

Still, resisting the urge was torture.

Every time he made you laugh, you wanted to rest your hand on his chest. Every time he came home from a hunt, you wanted to throw yourself into his arms, burying kisses into his skin. Every time he drove, you ached to reach for his hand.

But you didn’t.

And tonight, in the Deancave, as the two of you finally got some much-needed alone time, it was even worse.

Dean had set everything up—movies, snacks, cold beers. He was fully relaxed, one arm draped lazily across the back of the couch. You, on the other hand, were perched on the opposite end, your legs across his lap but your hands gripping your beer bottle like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

Because if you let go, you knew what would happen.

Maybe you’d reach up and run your fingers through his hair. Maybe you’d start absentmindedly tracing his knuckles, spinning the ring on his finger while the movie played. Maybe you’d do all the things you craved to do but couldn’t.

And Dean noticed.

Of course, he noticed.

His hand moved to your knee, fingers rubbing slow, soothing circles against your skin. It was an innocent enough gesture—casual, absentminded. But to you, it was everything.

You stiffened, forcing yourself not to react, but it was useless. The warmth of his touch spread through you like wildfire, making your grip on the beer bottle tighten.

Dean’s gaze flicked to you, brow furrowing. “Sweetheart? Everything okay?”

You plastered on a smile, nodding. “Yeah. Fine.”

But Dean Winchester wasn’t stupid.

He smirked, pausing the movie and turning toward you. “Okay, now I know something’s up.” He stretched an arm along the back of the couch, shifting slightly closer. “I’ve been waiting for you to spill, but you haven’t. So, tell me—what’s going on?”

You sighed, setting your beer aside and tucking your hands beneath your thighs like a child hiding something behind their back. “Do you know what love languages are?”

Dean’s brow quirked, but he nodded. “Yeah, Sam tried explaining ‘em once. Something about communication and blah, blah, blah.”

You let out a small laugh. “Well… mine is touch.”

He tilted his head, waiting for you to continue.

“That’s how I show love,” you explained, voice quieter now. “And it’s, uh… been a problem before.” You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. “People get annoyed with me really fast because my hands are always on them. I don’t even think about it, I just… reach out. But it’s too much for some people, and I don’t—” You swallowed thickly. “I don’t want you to get sick of me and leave.””

Dean frowned, sitting up straighter. “Wait. People actually told you that?”

You nodded, exhaling. “Yeah. And I just… I don’t want you to feel like that. I don’t want you to get sick of me, or feel like I’m too much.”

You nodded, exhaling. “Yeah. And I just… I don’t want you to feel like that. I don’t want you to get sick of me, or feel like I’m too much.”

Dean blinked at you. Then, in a single fluid motion, he leaned in and wrapped his arms around you—so tightly it nearly knocked the air from your lungs. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured against your hair, pressing a firm kiss to your temple. “I love you.”

You blinked. “What?”

Dean pulled back just enough to smirk at you. “Give me your hands.”

Hesitantly, you pulled them from under your thighs, and he took them in his own before lifting them to his face, pressing them against his cheeks.

And just like that, the dam broke.

A relieved, breathy sigh escaped you as your fingers instinctively curled against his skin. It was as if your body had been holding its breath, and now, finally, finally, it could breathe.

Dean grinned. “See? That right there? That’s adorable.”

Your cheeks burned. “Dean—”

“I love when you touch me,” he said, eyes locked on yours, voice steady. “I would never get annoyed with it. Those other people? Jerks. They should’ve been grateful to have someone love them that much.”

“But… it always starts fine, and then—”

“Not with me,” he interrupted gently. “I love when you sneak into the kitchen in the morning and wrap your arms around me. I love that you need a kiss or a hug before I leave. I love waking up in the middle of the night and feeling your hand still on me, like you’re afraid I’ll disappear.”

“Really?” you whispered, searching his face for any sign of hesitation.

Dean smirked, pulling you closer. “Hell yeah. It’s adorable. You let out this little sigh whenever you touch me—like it calms you. And you know what? It calms me too. Even when I’m pissed off, if I feel your hand on me, it just—” He exhaled. “It just makes everything better. So, please, for the love of God, never stop.”

Your heart flipped as you melted against him, finally letting yourself indulge in what you had been denying for days, letting your hands finally roam freely—over his shoulders, through his hair, down his arms. And he let you.

No—he leaned into it.

Your lips found his cheek in a feather-light kiss before capturing his lips in a slow, lingering one.

When you pulled away, he grinned. “See? Who the hell would complain about that?”

You giggled, resting your head against him. “But… what if you do?”

Dean hummed in thought. “Alright, let’s make a deal. If—and that’s a big if—I ever need space, I’ll just say so. But sweetheart, I swear, that’s never gonna happen.” He paused, smirking. “I mean, you could even touch me while I’m taking a leak if you wanted.”

You gasped, smacking his arm. “Dean!”

He laughed, catching your wrist and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “See? That’s the only time it might be a little weird.”

You giggled, curling back into him, your fingers drawing lazy patterns on his arm, threading through his hair, tracing the fabric of his shirt.

And not once did he flinch. Not once did he shift away.

Instead, he leaned in, sighing into your touch, letting you soothe him, ground him.

As the night stretched on, you stayed curled up against him, hands resting wherever they pleased—his arm, his chest, his fingers interlaced with yours. Dean made no move to pull away. If anything, he leaned further into your touch, letting out soft, contented sighs every time your fingers traced lazy circles on his skin.

At one point, he shifted, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head before murmuring, “You know, I think I figured out my love language.”

You glanced up, smiling softly. “Oh yeah? What is it?”

Dean smirked, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “You.”

Your heart swelled as he tilted your chin up, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips.

“My love language is the way you curl into me like you belong there,” he whispered. “The way your hands reach for me without thinking, like I’m the only thing that makes you feel safe. The way you touch me like you need to remind yourself I’m real.” He nudged his nose against yours. “My love language is knowing I get to be the one person in the world you trust enough to love like this.”

Tears burned at the back of your eyes, but before you could say anything, Dean grinned.

“Oh, and kissing. Definitely kissing.”

You let out a watery laugh as he pulled you closer, sealing his words with another slow, sweet kiss.

Maybe touch was how you showed love. But for Dean, you—your laughter, your presence, your hands on him—were all the love he’d ever need.

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!

"You wanna drive?" Dean asked, twirling the Impala's kets as he strolled towards Baby.

You chuckled, shaking your head as you followed him-until you noticed he wasn't laughing. You stopped dead in your tracks.

"Oh.... wait. You're serious?"

Dean leaned against the car, tilting his head at you. "Yeah? Why wouldn’t I be?"

You bit your lip, suddenly feeling a little shy. "Dean… I thought you figured it out by now...I don’t know how to drive."

His mouth parted slightly. He blinked once, twice—processing.

"You what?" He stood up straight, looking genuinely shocked by this information. "You mean… all this time… you never mentioned it?"

You shrugged. "I just thought you knew. I mean, I always let you drive. Figured you’d put two and two together."

Dean scoffed in disbelief. "I thought you just liked being a... what do they call it online-a passenger princess?"

You shrugged, a small smile tugging at your lips. "I mean… yeah. But also, I never learned."

Dean looked personally betrayed. He clutched Baby’s keys tighter. "But… but you're my girl… and she's my Baby... and my girl should be driving my Baby!"

Dean stared at you, his expression shifting from shock to something softer. His thumb brushed his bottom lip as he thought for a second before suddenly grinning. "Alright. I’m teaching you."

Your eyes widened. "Wait, right now?!"

"Yup." He grabbed your hand, gently placing the keys in your palm. "Right now, Sweetheart."

Your heart skipped at the way he looked at you—proud, excited, full of trust. He never let anyone drive Baby. And now, just like that, he was handing her over to you?

"But—"

"No buts," he said, opening the driver's side door for you. "Hop in."

You hesitated before slipping into the seat, your hands resting on the wheel. Dean climbed into the passenger seat, watching you with an encouraging smile.

"Alright, first things first," he started, his voice softer now. "Relax. I’ve got you."

You let out a breath, and his hand found yours, giving it a light squeeze before guiding it back to the wheel.

Dean sensed your nerves and started slow, explaining every little thing—the wheel, the pedals, how to brake, how to turn, how not to kill him in a fiery explosion, the usual.

And then came the moment of truth.

"Okay, sweetheart. Just a little-"

You pressed down.

A little too hard.

Dean jerked forward, his hands slamming against the dashboard with a panicked grunt.

"Oh my god!" You gasped.

Dean let out a shaky laugh, sitting back. "Okay, let's try that again, but with a little less 'launch us into space, okay?"

"Sorry!" You winced in embarrassment.

He chuckled, shaking his head. "It’s alright. First time’s always rough."

Trying again, you lightly pressed down, and Baby rolled forward at a much more reasonable speed. A shy grin spread across your face.

"See? You got this!" Dean encouraged. "Now, go ahead and brake."

You slammed the brake pedal like you were trying to break a world record.

Dean lurched forward again.

"Easy, Tiger!" He let out a nervous laugh, rubbing his neck.

You covered your mouth, trying to stifle a giggle. "Oh my God, I’m so sorry."

Dean looked at you, taking in your nervous smile, and all he could do was shake his head affectionately. "You’re lucky you’re cute."

After a few more tries (and a few more near-heart attacks for Dean), you looked over at him, eyes full of excitement.

Dean hesitated. He was about to say no—he should have said no—but one look at your excited, hopeful eyes and he caved.

He sighed, shaking his head fondly. "...Yeah, alright."

You squealed, immediately shifting into gear.

Dean immediately regretted his life choices.

The moment Baby lurched onto the road, Dean gripped the door handle like his life depended on it.

The car swerved slightly, and he let out a choked noise. "Oookay, just a little—yep, alright—maybe not so fast—"

But you? You were glowing. The wind in your hair, the power of Baby in your hands, the thrill of freedom. Completely unaware of the man beside you silently going through five stages of grief.

"I love this!" you laughed, beaming.

Dean tried to smile but was visibly fighting for his life. "Y-yeah, I can tell!"

At one point, Dean’s life flashed before his eyes. "WATCH OUT—!"

You barely dodged an oncoming car, swerving to the side with a giggle. "Oops!"

Dean placed a hand over his racing heart. "For the love of—‘oops’ is not comforting right now!"

Eventually, miraculously, you pulled up to the bunker in one piece.

Sam stood outside, arms crossed, watching you park (crookedly). "Wow, look at you! How was it?"

You practically bounced out of the car, grinning ear to ear. "Amazing! I wanna drive all the time now!"

Dean got out much slower. His face was pale, his smile painfully forced. "You did great, sweetheart, so proud of you!"

You kissed his cheek and ran inside, still giddy.

The moment the door shut, Dean bent over, hands on his knees, letting out the breath of pure anxiety he'd been holding.

Sam smirked. "So... fun ride?"

Dean stood up, looking traumatized. "I think I had three heart attacks. I defiently lost seven souls and I'm pretty sure I met God."

Sam laughed loudly, slapping Dean’s back. "Gonna tell her she needs more practice?"

Dean sighed, watching the door where you disappeared, a soft smile creeping onto his lips. "...Nope."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"

Dean shook his head, running a hand down his face. "Did you see her? She was so damn happy. I mean, terrifyingly happy, but still."

Sam smirked. "So next time, you’ll what? Take a sedative?"

Dean scoffed. "Nah. Next time, I’m installing five seat belts on my side. Maybe even a roll cage. And an emergency eject button."

Before Sam could respond, the bunker door flew open and you popped your head out, grinning.

"Hey, Dean?"

Dean straightened, instantly softening. "Yeah, sweetheart?"

You gave him your best puppy-dog eyes. "Can we go driving again tomorrow?"

Dean blinked. Swallowed hard. Sam smirked, awaiting his reponse.

Every rational part of him knew this was a terrible idea for his blood pressure—but looking at you, all giddy and shining with joy, he was a goner.

"...Sure, baby," Dean said with a tight-lipped smile. His voice warm, filled with nothing but affection. "Of course, baby. Whenever you want."

Your entire face lit up. Without thinking, you launched yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck in the tightest hug.

"God, I love you," you mumbled against his shoulder, still buzzing with excitement.

Dean’s arms instinctively wrapped around you, holding you close, his heart flipping at your words. He kissed the side of your head, smiling against your hair.

"Love you too, sweetheart."

You bounced back inside excitedly, the bunker door closing behind you.

Dean immediately turned to Sam. "Find me the strongest anxiety meds on the market."

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!

Dean had been watching you for days.

At first, he thought maybe it was just a bad night's sleep or the aftermath of the recent hunt. But then.. it didn't go away.

The light in your eyes had dimmed. The usual spark he loved so damn much-the one that made you, you-was just... gone.

You still smiled, still laughed when he or Sam cracked a joke, but it wasn't real. Not the kind of laugh that lit up your whole face, the one that made his chest feel warm and full.

And it was killing him.

Dean wasn't exactly a soft guy, but when it came to you? He was a damn marshmallow. You were the one thing in his life that felt good-the one person who made all the crap they dealt with worth it. So watching you fade into yourself like this? It hurt more than any wound he'd ever taken on a hunt.

He'd tried to ask about it a couple of times, but you'd just shrugged it off, giving him a half-hearted smile and telling him you were fine.

Bullshit.

Dean knew better. So, if you weren't gonna talk about it, fine. He'd juts have to fix it another way.

And he had a plan.

Phase One: Prank War.

Dean started small-swapping the sugar for salt in Sam's coffee. You barely blinked when Sam did a classic spit take all over the kitchen floor.

He escalated with a well-placed whoopee cushion under Sam's chair in the war room. Nothing.

By the time he tried rigging the sink to spray you, only for you to just laugh small and wipe your hands off like it was normal, Dean knew he had to step up his game.

Phase Two: Bad Jokes & Terrible Puns.

“Why don’t skeletons fight each other?”

“Dean…”

“They don’t have the guts!”

A barely-there smile. But not enough.

“C’mon, sweetheart. That was gold!”

“Mm-hmm. Your a dork.”

Okay, so jokes weren’t working either.

Phase Three: Impala Karaoke.

Dean cranked up the classics, belting out every rock anthem he could think of as he drove you around for hours. Then, when that didn’t work, he resorted to boy band pop.

Hearing Dean Winchester sing “I Want It That Way” with full choreography? It cracked a smile, a small laugh, but it wasn't enough.

Drastic times, Winchester.

That’s how he found himself standing in front of an old, dusty storage room deep in the bunker, staring at a pile of forgotten costumes left behind by some long-dead Men of Letters.

But now that he was here, actually holding the ridiculous outfit in his hands…

It was a full-blown pirate outfit.

We’re talking the whole deal—puffy white shirt, leather vest, knee-high boots, a ridiculously oversized pirate hat with a giant feather sticking out, and… an eye patch.

“Jesus…” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck as he glanced down at the outfit. “What the hell am I doin’?”

He could feel the embarrassment creeping up his neck. But then… he thought of you.

Of that tired, distant look in your eyes. Of how long it had been since he heard your real laugh—the one that made his heart feel like it was gonna explode.

She’s worth it.Dean blew out a breath, running a hand through his hair like he was psyching himself up for battle.

“Alright, Winchester,” he muttered, grabbing the costume. “Time to make a damn fool of yourself.”

Phase 4: Operation Costume Crisis

You were curled up on the couch in the library, absently flipping through a book that had been sitting in your lap for over an hour. You weren’t even sure what you were reading anymore—your mind was too clouded.

“Ahoy, me Love!”

Your head snapped up, and your eyes went wide.

Standing in the doorway was Dean. Dressed as a full-blown pirate.

“Oh… my… God.”

Dean was wearing everything—the white shirt, tight leather vest, and pants that clung to his legs in all the right places. But the best part? The hat.

It was huge—comically oversized, with a giant feather sticking out of the side. And perched slightly crooked on his head, it just made the whole look even more ridiculous.

But that wasn’t all.

Dean was also wearing an eye patch.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice dropping to a deep, overly dramatic growl. “I be Captain Winchester, here to plunder yer heart, lass.”

You blinked.

Once.

Twice.

“Dean…”

“Captain Winchester,” he corrected, straightening his back and puffing out his chest.

And then…

He pulled out a plastic sword from behind his back and twirled it.

“I’ve sailed the seven seas,” he declared, his voice dipping into the most ridiculous pirate accent you’d ever heard. “And nothin’ I’ve found is as precious as ye, me love.”

You blinked again, pressing your lips together, trying so hard not to laugh.

“Dean…”

“Arrr, lass!” He pointed the plastic sword at you, narrowing his one eye dramatically. “Do ye doubt me sincerity?”

Oh, he was committed.

Dean was all in.

But you could see it—the faint flush in his cheeks, the way he shifted on his feet, clearly dying of embarrassment but still pushing through.

And that’s what broke you.

The giggle you’d been fighting finally broke free, and once it started, there was no stopping it. First, a snort. Then full-blown, belly-shaking, tears-in-your-eyes laughter.

“Oh my God,” you gasped between breaths, clutching your stomach. “Dean… what… the hell?”

“Only the best for you, sweetheart,” he muttered, but you caught the way his lips twitched—his own smile threatening to break through.

“Dean… are you serious?”

He sighed dramatically, dropping the pirate voice but not the ridiculous accent.

“Sweetheart,” he drawled, tugging at the damn eye patch. “I’ve been prancin’ around this bunker for twenty minutes tryin’ to work up the nerve to come in here. You better appreciate this.”

And that’s when he twirled the sword again… and promptly knocked the hat right off his head.

That did it.

You lost it all over again, laughing so hard you couldn’t breathe, tears streaming down your face as Dean groaned and bent down to pick up the hat.

“Alright, alright,” he muttered, but his grin was wide and genuine now, his green eyes brighter than they’d been in days. “Mission accomplished.”

Dean’s grin softened as he knelt in front of you, brushing a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb.

“Feel better now?” His voice was softer this time, the teasing gone—just Dean, looking at you like you hung the damn moon.

“Dean…”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you.”

“Anytime, sweetheart.” His lips brushed gently against yours, and for a moment, everything else faded away.

“Mission accomplished, Captain Winchester,” you murmured against his mouth, a teasing smile tugging at your lips.

“You know…” Your fingers trailed lightly down his chest, stopping at the edge of the leather vest. “I think I might have a thing for pirates.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up, and his lips quirked.

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hmm.” You leaned in, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Especially ones who go all out to make me laugh.”

Dean’s grin turned downright wicked, but before he could say anything, you tugged him down, pulling him on top of you as you leaned back on the couch.

“Easy there, lass,” he growled, slipping right back into character, his voice dipping into that ridiculous pirate accent again.

“Oh no…” You bit your lip, trying not to laugh. “You’re not seriously—”

“Ye best be ready,” he murmured, his lips brushing along your neck, “for a night of plunderin’ and pleasure, me love.”

“Dean…”

“Nay, lass,” he whispered against your skin, his breath warm and sending shivers down your spine. “Ye’ll address me as Captain.”

You snorted, but before you could protest, his lips captured yours, swallowing your laughter as his hands wandered lower.

“Dean—”

“Captain,” he murmured again, his voice lower this time, the teasing mixed with something darker.

And when his lips moved to your neck, trailing heat down to your collarbone, you decided…

Maybe Captain Winchester wasn’t so bad after all.

Later that night, with you curled up against his chest, your soft breaths warming his skin, Dean couldn’t stop the grin tugging at his lips.

That smile.

The one he’d been dying to see for days.

And now? It was back.

“Mission accomplished,” he murmured softly, brushing a kiss to your forehead.

His chest felt lighter, his heart full.

Because seeing you happy again?

That was worth all the damn embarrassment.

And as he drifted off, holding you close, one thought crossed his mind: "I’d do it all over again."

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!

The first morning you were gone, Beau didn’t think much of it.

He showed up at the diner out of habit, still shaking sleep from his brain, half-heartedly rehearsing jokes to make you laugh.

But you weren’t there.

The waitress at the counter — a teenager he didn’t know by name — poured his coffee without a second glance.

He frowned into his mug, feeling stupidly disappointed.

Probably your day off, he told himself. You deserve a day off.

Still, it gnawed at him, a small splinter just beneath the surface.

By the second morning, it felt wrong.

Beau lingered at the counter longer than he should have, sipping coffee that tasted burnt and bitter without your easy laugh to smooth it over.

When he asked the kid behind the counter where you were, she just shrugged.

"Didn’t show up, I guess," she said, popping gum. "Boss said she called out sick or something."

Beau nodded, tried to shake the cold coil tightening in his gut.

He told himself not to overthink it. Maybe you caught a bug. Maybe you needed a break. God knew you deserved one.

He left a bigger tip than usual anyway. Just in case you’d see it when you came back.

But he barely made it back to the station before the next fire started.

Sharron was waiting for him outside, leaning against the steps like she owned the place.

"You can’t keep ignoring me," she snapped the moment he stepped out of the truck.

"I’m at work," Beau bit out, forcing himself to keep walking.

"I don't care!" she called after him, heels clicking on the concrete as she followed. "You’re trying to erase me, Beau! You think you can just pretend like none of it mattered?!"

He slammed the station door in her face without looking back.

His phone buzzed furiously in his pocket all day. Calls. Voicemails. Texts that swung wildly from weeping pleas to seething threats.

"If you think you’re gonna make me look like the bad guy, you’re dead wrong.""You’ll regret this.""We were supposed to be forever."

He turned it on silent and buried it in his desk drawer.

Later that afternoon, he got a call from his lawyer. Sharron was refusing to sign the final divorce papers unless he met with her in person.

Beau nearly laughed at the absurdity of it — bitter and hollow.

"Tell her to go to hell," he muttered, hanging up.

But the truth was, she wasn’t going anywhere. Not yet.

And with every hour that passed, Beau felt the ground under him shift a little more, like loose gravel on a cliff’s edge.

The third morning, he went to the diner again.

You still weren’t there.

The kid at the counter just shook her head before he even asked.

"Manager said she never called," she said around her gum. "Haven’t heard from her."

The splinter in Beau’s chest twisted deeper.

You weren’t the type to just... not show up. You were steady. Reliable.

You’d told him yourself once — in that quiet voice, half a joke, half a confession — that the diner felt like the only place you truly belonged.

You wouldn’t abandon it. Not without a reason.

Not without a damn good reason.

Beau pushed his half-full coffee cup away and stood. The pit in his stomach was growing now.

Dark and heavy.

Something was wrong.

Really wrong.

He just didn’t know yet how wrong.

But he was about to find out.

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! Chapter 5 coming soon!

"You're not listening!"

I huffed, pressing my back against the cool concrete wall, staring back at the older Winchester. "No, I'm just not understanding what you're trying to say!"

Dean pushed off the wall, running a hand through his hair before standing in front of me. "I—I’m not good at explaining, using my words."

I frowned at his vulnerability. I wanted to understand—I really did—but he was making no sense, and it was frustrating. He was never like this, never this lost.

An hour ago, he came home from a hunt looking as defeated as he always did when things went sideways. Normally, he’d find me. He’d sneak into my room, wrap his arms around me like I was his anchor, inhaling every bit of comfort I had to offer. And then we’d talk. For hours, sometimes. I always understood him—every sigh, every subtle shift in his tone, every weighted pause.

But last night, everything changed.

We crossed a boundary. We hooked up. He was feeling low, and so was I, and we used each other to feel better. It wasn’t just comfort; it was something else—something deeper, something unspoken. I thought it was everything we had ever wanted.

Until tonight.

Until I reached for him, and he moved my hands off his shoulders. Until he walked away from me like none of it happened.

Maybe I should’ve given him space, but he was my best friend. For three years, it had been us—always us. We promised nothing would change, that no matter what happened, our friendship wouldn’t break.

But now he was acting stranger than usual, dodging my touch, throwing up walls, speaking in circles. And worse, he wasn’t making sense. Dean Winchester was using metaphors.

And not just any metaphors—bad ones.

"It’s like—I don’t know—it’s like trying to hold onto smoke. The second I think I have it, it slips right through my fingers."

I blinked. "What?"

He exhaled sharply, pacing. "Or—or like driving a car with no brakes. You know you're headed straight for a wreck, but you can't stop."

I raised a brow. "Dean—"

"Or like—damn it, Y/N, it’s like standing in the ocean during a storm. The waves keep hitting, pulling you under, and just when you think you're okay, another one knocks you down."

I opened my mouth, then closed it. "So... I’m the storm? Or the car crash? Or—?"

He groaned, rubbing his hands down his face. "See? This is why I don’t do words."

I sighed, crossing my arms. "Then just say what you mean. Stop hiding behind half-baked metaphors and talk to me."

He went quiet, leaning against the wall, his gaze fixed on the cracks in the floor. "I just... maybe we are inevitable, and I can't stop it. I can't protect you."

The words lingered between us, heavy and unspoken. But I still didn’t understand.

And that’s what scared me. Because I had never been confused around Dean.

Now? I felt like I was losing him.

A sigh escaped his lips before he turned and walked away, leaving the air cold and lonely in his wake.

That must’ve been my answer.

I swallowed hard, forcing back the tears threatening to spill as I rushed to my room. This was it. This was the end. My worst nightmare come true.

It took an hour to calm down. An hour to silence the voices screaming in my head, telling me I had lost him for good.

And it also took an hour for Dean to finally come back.

The soft sound of his knuckles against my door made me turn. He looked just like I did—lost, confused, sad, scared.

Without a word, I lifted the blanket, letting him slip inside. He stripped off his shirt and jeans before climbing in next to me, sharing my warmth.

The silence stretched on—too long—but finally, he spoke, voice thick with regret.

"I know I wasn't making any sense. I'm not good at expressing myself."

I reached up, stroking his cheek, letting him process. Maybe patience was what he needed all along.

His green eyes met mine, filled with sadness. "I thought last night was a big step for us. When I woke up with you in my arms, I was happy. Excited. But then I got scared because..."

He hesitated, and I wouldn't allow it. Not when he was so close to making me understand.

"Go on," I whispered, no judgment in my voice.

He swallowed hard. "I've never felt the way I do, and it scares me. I don’t know what it is or what it means."

"How do you feel?"

He hesitated again, his hands trembling against my stomach, his eyes darting. He was terrified—to speak, to get it wrong. And I was terrified to hear it.

"I—I felt... I don’t know."

I scooted closer, wrapping my arms tightly around him. "Dean, it’s me. You can tell me anything."

His hand came to my cheek, thumb brushing my skin like he needed the contact to keep himself grounded. "I felt like my heart was full. When I got up to shower, I missed you. I felt like I needed to be back in bed with you or I was going to die. And the entire hunt—I couldn’t stop thinking about you. This was different. It wasn’t just a hookup. It wasn’t just some drunk dare. It felt..."

"It felt like love," I finished for him.

He nodded slowly, finally understanding himself. And suddenly, so did I.

He wasn’t pushing me away because he didn’t want this. He was pushing me away because he did. Because he was scared.

"Dean, look at me."

It took a moment, but when he did, his eyes shone with unshed tears.

"You’re right," I said softly. "It did feel like love. And we are inevitable. No matter how hard you try to fight it, no matter how much it scares you, we are meant to be, I can feel that. You can feel that. That doesn’t mean you can’t protect me. It just means you’re more afraid of losing me. And I get it. I’m afraid, too."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed thickly. "I don’t... I don’t want to be scared. I don’t want to feel this way."

"Then we stop."

His eyes widened, sitting up slightly. "What?"

"We stop. We mark this as a mistake, and we move on. We’ll always be best friends, but maybe we can’t do the relationship part."

I didn’t mean it. But I needed him to see that losing me was far scarier than loving me.

His grip tightened on my arm. "W-Wait..."

I smiled sadly. "I’m waiting. But I need to know what you want."

Silence. And then—

"I don’t want that."

I leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. "Me neither."

He exhaled shakily. "What do we do?"

I shrugged, snuggling back into him. "What we’ve always done. We’re there for each other. Just because this became something more doesn’t mean anything’s changed. You’re still my best friend. I still love you—just in a different way now."

His arms tightened around me, lips pressing to my forehead. "I love you, too... I think I can do that. Go back to normal."

I smiled. "Good. You scared me there, Winchester. I thought I lost you."

He chuckled, pulling me close. "Maybe a bit, but you always know how to find me."

A slow grin spread across my face. "You know, for a guy who claims he isn’t good with words, you sure know how to make a mess with them."

He groaned, burying his face in my shoulder. "Yeah, yeah. My metaphors suck."

I laughed, running my fingers through his hair. "Oh, they’re awful. Smoke? Storms? A brake-less car? What even was that?"

He chuckled, his breath warm against my skin. "Shut up. You knew what I meant."

"Mmm, debatable. But next time? Just say 'I love you' and spare us both the headache."

He pulled back just enough to look at me, a smirk playing on his lips. "Fine. I love you."

I grinned. "See? So much easier."

He chuckled again, pulling me tighter against him. "Yeah, yeah. Just don’t expect me to be all poetic about it."

I smirked, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "Wouldn’t dream of it, Winchester."

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!