#teamfreewill

Dean strides in, carrying a steaming mug in one hand and a bottle of cold medicine in the other. His green eyes scan you critically, but there’s no mocking smirk, no sarcastic comment. He’s wearing his usual uniform of jeans and a faded black T-shirt, but his hair is a little mussed, and there’s a subtle droop in his posture, like he’s been pacing or running errands you don’t remember asking for.

“Well, you’re alive,” he says, his voice a blend of dry humor and something softer. “Barely. Look like crap, though.”

“Feel worse,” you croak, voice barely above a whisper. It’s hard to say more; even talking feels like a monumental effort.

Dean chuckles low, shaking his head as he places the mug on the nightstand and sets the cold medicine beside it. “Yeah, figured. Got your meds, some soup—don’t ask what’s in it; just eat it—and, uh, entertainment.” He gestures vaguely toward the TV on the dresser. You glance over to see a cheesy Christmas movie already queued up. Twinkling lights, fake snow, and actors way too cheerful for your current state fill the screen.

“Is that Holiday in Handcuffs?” you ask, voice barely audible.

Dean shrugs nonchalantly, but you can see the faint flush creeping up his neck. “I remember you said once it was your favorite holiday movie. Figured it couldn’t hurt. Not like you’re watching Die Hard in this condition.”

You let out a weak laugh that quickly dissolves into a coughing fit. Dean’s immediately at your side, placing a steadying hand on your back as you double over. His palm is broad and warm, the pressure grounding you until the coughing subsides.

“Jesus, take it easy,” he mutters, his tone gruff but not unkind. He pulls a box of tissues closer and thrusts them into your hand. “You hack up a lung, and I’m not cleaning it up.”

You wipe your nose and sink back into the pillows, utterly spent. Dean unscrews the cap on the cold medicine, his expression twisting in irritation as it resists. “Stupid thing,” he grumbles, shaking it like the lid might magically pop off. Finally, with a satisfying click, he hands it over, careful not to spill.

“Bottoms up,” he says, watching you like a hawk. You grimace as the thick, syrupy liquid slides down your throat, and Dean snorts. “What, too fancy for cherry flavor?”

“It’s awful,” you manage, wincing.

“You’ll live,” he retorts, grabbing the mug of soup and placing it in your hands. The steam rises in delicate swirls, but when you take a sip, the taste is... underwhelming. It’s warm, sure, but there’s no seasoning, no flavor beyond the faint hint of chicken broth.

Dean notices your hesitation and narrows his eyes. “Don’t even start. I followed the recipe. Mostly.”

“Mostly?” you rasp.

“Okay, so I skipped the part with the spices. Sue me,” he says, crossing his arms defensively. “Not like I keep a spice rack in Baby’s trunk.”

Despite everything, you smile. The soup isn’t great, but it’s warm, and it’s Dean. He could’ve left you to fend for yourself, but instead, he’s here, fumbling his way through what has to be his least favorite role—caretaker.

As the afternoon drags on, Dean refuses to leave your side for long. He keeps himself busy, fussing with blankets, refilling your mug with tea, and grumbling every time you so much as sniffle. When you return from the bathroom, you find Dean, perched on the edge of the bed, stabs at his phone with one finger, muttering something about "Christmas movies" and "Sam's stupid suggestions."

“What are you doing?” you croak, your voice rougher than gravel.

He barely glances up. “Finding something less... sparkly. Seriously, how does anyone enjoy this crap?” he mutters, flipping through the options. “Where’s the explosions? The car chases? It’s all snowflakes and—oh, look, another goddamn mistletoe scene.”

He makes a dramatic gagging noise as another cheesy romantic gesture plays out on the screen. “This is a no-chick-flick zone, remember? Rule number one.”

You muster a weak smile, though it quickly turns into a cough. Dean tosses the phone aside and hands you a tissue like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hand brushes yours for a moment, warm and steady, and you catch a flicker of something in his eyes. Maybe concern, maybe embarrassment—hard to tell with Dean.

“Is that why you’re still here?” you rasp, dabbing at your nose. “Cause this feels suspiciously chick-flicky to me.”

Dean snorts, crossing his arms over his chest like he’s defending himself from the accusation. “Look, you’re sick. Can’t have you wandering around half-dead infecting everybody else—especially me. This is survival, not sentiment.”

“Uh-huh,” you murmur, raising an eyebrow. “So it’s not because you secretly enjoy the sappy holiday romance?”

His jaw tightens, and he glares at the screen as if it personally insulted him. “Okay, first of all, no. Second, I’m not staying here ‘cause of the movie. I’m staying ‘cause someone’s gotta make sure you don’t die from lack of fluids.”

You laugh weakly, though it fades into another cough. Dean sighs, running a hand down his face. “Fine,” he mutters, leaning back against the headboard. “Maybe I’m breaking my own rule. But don’t get used to it, okay? This is a one-time deal. You’re sick. That’s the only reason I’m letting this slide.”

Your smile softens as you glance at him, his arms crossed, boots propped on the bed frame, a grumble on his lips but undeniable warmth in his eyes. “Thanks, Dean,” you whisper.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, waving a hand dismissively. “Just don’t tell Sam. He’ll never let me live it down.” 

Hours later, as the sky outside darkens, Dean’s still there. He’s stretched out in the chair beside your bed, his legs sprawled out and boots resting against the edge of the mattress. The TV flickers in the dim light, a cheesy Christmas movie filling the room with soft chatter, though it’s clear his focus isn’t on the screen. His gaze keeps drifting toward you every time you shift or let out a quiet cough, his features softening just slightly in that way he’d never admit to.

“You’re not half bad at this,” you murmur, your voice raspier than usual, the words barely audible over the sound of the TV.

Dean’s head snaps toward you, eyebrows lifting in mild surprise. He snorts, leaning forward and planting his elbows on his knees. “Don’t get used to it,” he says, the usual edge in his tone softened by something warmer. “I’m not about to start knitting you sweaters or reading bedtime stories.”

“Shame,” you manage, offering him a faint smile. “You rock the whole ‘caretaker’ vibe.”

He rolls his eyes, shifting in the chair like he’s trying to get comfortable but failing miserably. “Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, Chuckles,” he mutters, though the corner of his mouth twitches, betraying the grin he’s trying to suppress. “Next time you get sick, I’m calling Cas. Let him deal with the mucus and misery.”

Your weak laugh quickly morphs into a cough, and Dean is on his feet before you’ve even finished, hovering with an uneasy blend of concern and awkwardness. He rubs the back of his neck, muttering something about getting you more water, but instead, he pulls the chair closer to the bed, then changes his mind again and sinks onto the edge of the mattress.

“You’re gonna break that damn chair if you keep flopping around in it,” you tease weakly, watching as he settles beside you. His presence feels grounding, steady, even if he pretends not to notice the way you relax as he leans back against the headboard.

“Flopping? You’re delirious,” he shoots back, though he doesn’t move to leave. Instead, he stretches his legs out, crossing his ankles and resting one arm along the back of the bed frame like he belongs there. “This doesn’t mean I’m staying,” he adds after a beat. “I’m just... making sure you don’t roll over and die in your sleep or something.”

You don’t call him out on the obvious lie. Instead, you let your hand rest on the edge of the blanket, and after a long moment of silence, you feel the weight of his hand brush against yours. It’s tentative, uncharacteristically soft, and when he doesn’t pull away, neither do you.

The bunker grows quieter as the night stretches on, the low hum of the TV blending with the sound of your slowed breathing. You drift off, comforted not just by the warmth of his hand but by the steady, undeniable presence of Dean Winchester at your side. And as sleep claims you, you know that badass reputation or not, Dean is more than capable of caring for the people he loves. Right now, that person is you.

The lock clicked, and you and Sam crept forward through the door. Guns drawn, you moved around each other with practiced ease. Thanks to Dean’s ungodly ability to flirt, the four of you had gotten blueprints of the house and had memorized them down to the last brick. You moved swiftly to the upstairs, followed by Sam. 

You knew the witch was home – you had seen her arrive. Stealth was key in this case. She’d killed eight people with hex bags already. They were gruesome, horrible deaths, and you wanted her dead like you’d never wanted anyone dead before. 

Once Dean and Cas had cleared the downstairs, they joined you and Sam upstairs. You peeled off towards the bedrooms with Dean, and Cas joined Sam. The hallways were dark, and there were nine doors to check behind. As Dean entered the master bedroom, you spared a glance over your shoulder towards the other two before you went with him. 

As you finished clearing it, trying not to bump into the bed, dresser, desk, or table, you heard a strange thump and then a yell. 

You and Dean barreled out of the room and down the hall. You skidded to a stop when you reached the open doorway and stared. Dean all but ran into you as his sprint was halted by your body blocking the door.

Cas had a stupidly silly smile spread across his face, and was dancing around in big circles with his hands waving in the air. Whereas, Sam had his mouth wide open and was measuring with his hands how big it was. 

Almost as soon as you’d taken in the ridiculous scene, Dean knocked you into the doorframe as he shoved forward, eager to figure out what was going on. He grabbed some sort of ancient looking scroll from Cas’s hand, and almost immediately started mirroring Sam’s actions.

“Dean!” you whispered angrily. “Dean, whatever that thing is, it’s not what we’re here for! Cas, stop fooling around like an idiot! And Sam, dude, what the hell are you even doing!?” You couldn’t believe you had this to deal with now. You had three men who were currently no better than children, and a dangerous witch you still hadn’t seen. 

Backing away, you shut the door quickly, hoping to contain the noise that Sam, Dean, and Cas were all making. With these circumstances, you’d do better against the witch on your own, which still didn’t mean things would go well.

As you turned around, you came face to face with a very smug looking woman. She had brown hair slightly past her shoulders, had a pretty, long face, and looked like she knew how to handle herself. It was the witch herself, Elizabeth.

“Shit,” you managed to get out before attempting to take a shot at her with your gun. She knocked it from your hands as you fired, spinning you into the wall. You retaliated by launching up and taking a swing at her with a mean right hook. She ducked, and you recovered quickly, doing your best to keep your back to the wall. The two of you fought your way down the hall. The blows and kicks were vicious, and you knew this wouldn’t end unless one of you was dead. If you could keep her busy enough to not say any incantations, you figured you might have a chance to extend your life by a few minutes, but without your gun, you weren’t sure how in the hell you were going to kill her.

The fight wore on, and it was becoming apparent that you were at a disadvantage. Primarily because Elizabeth knew the house best. Even having memorized the blueprints, there was a difference between studying the layout of a house and living in it. She knew when there was a corner to throw you against, a table to flip you over, curtains to tangle you in. You’d never admit it, but you were starting to wonder if she was in better shape than you. Being a hunter, you had your fair share of fights, but you’d always had Sam or Dean to come help take out whatever monstrosity you were fighting with.

With a loud smash, you went flying over the kitchen counter and hit the fridge with considerable force. As you lay on the ground, slightly stunned, you fisted your hands angrily, your fingers closing around something which caused you to glance down. It was a knife. 

You quickly scrambled to your feet with a maniacal grin across your face. Elizabeth advanced and you launched yourself at her, the knife coming into her view too late. You ran the blade right through her neck, forcing it through her windpipe and into the spinal vertebrae. Elizabeth’s eyes went wide, and her mouth moved like she was trying to speak. But instead of words leaving her mouth, it was blood. As crimson liquid dripped down from her mouth, you heard another commotion coming down the hall. Sam was weaving around in the hallway, smashing into the walls as hard as he could as he walked, chuckling stupidly. You sprinted over to him while the witch was in shock from your attack. You reached behind Sam’s waist to grab his gun, which was filled with witch-killing bullets. 

You heard her gurgle as you spun around and fired without hesitation. Elizabeth stared at you lifelessly before dropping to the floor. You smiled grimly at her and then kicked her hard with your booted foot. 

“That’s for the innocent people you killed, you bitch.”

You watched her for a minute, and then realized you weren’t hearing any stupid noises from Sam. You turned to look his way and saw him looking proudly at you. “Well done, Y/N. I can’t believe you killed her by yourself!” 

“Yeah, well, I can’t believe you let yourself get cursed when you knew we were in a witch’s house,” you teased.

As the beating you took stared to cause your body to ache something awful, you thought, Shit, this is gonna hurt tomorrow. 

Groaning to yourself, you walked back upstairs with Sam to find out what had befallen Dean and Cas. You opened the door, and immediately was knocked off your feet by two well built men falling out of the door.

All of you let out grunts and “oof”s as the three of you landed in a pile on the floor. Immediately on top of you was Dean. You looked at each other in surprise and relief. 

Both of you started talking at the same time. “What the fuck are you doing?” “How’re you still alive?” He laughed as you chuckled weakly. 

“Get off me you big lugs,” you moaned. They got up good-naturedly and looked at Sam, waiting to be told how the spell was broken.

Sam responded to their expectant looks by saying, “The only thing I can think of is that Elizabeth had cursed the scroll herself to cause whoever touched it to lose some sanity. But since it ended, I’m assuming that curse was tied to her life force.” He looked pensive and then shrugged. “I mean, kinda rare, but I’ll take it.”

Taking their pause as a cue, you spoke proudly, “I killed her.” Dean and Cas looked at you in shock. Continuing smugly, you said, “I mean, she was kicking my ass, let’s be real. But she made the mistake of throwing me over the kitchen counter.. By the knives.” You paused briefly to give them a knowing look and then kept going with your story. “So, I hit the fridge, and as I made a fist - cause man, am I pissed now! - my hand closes on a silver knife. How lucky was that!” You laughed. “I grab the knife, and launch myself at her before she can attack first. Got her right in the windpipe. Then Sam, who somehow got out of the room I shut y’all in, wandered right into my lap with his witch-killing bullets. Problem solved.” 

Sam gave you a hug and helped you up. “I’m sorry we weren’t able to help you, Y/N.” He looked at you proudly, but behind his eyes you could see guilt warring with pride.

“We’re proud of you, Y/N! Couldn’t have done it better ourselves,” Dean said, “C’mere!” He reached for you and grabbed you in a big bear hug. Squished against him, barely able to breath, you peeked over his shoulder, and saw Cas smiling softly at you.