#touched

He’d looked over at you at the wrong moment, getting lost in how hot you looked while you glowered at him from across the bench. Your knee up on the seat, back almost against the door. The way you made sure not to get your muddy shoe near the leather almost made him smirk. But it was the look in your eyes. Like you might literally kill him if it was his fault the two of you got stuck riding out this storm in Baby.

Dean couldn’t help himself. You reminded him of an angry cat when you got like this. He just typically enjoyed watching it being directed at others instead of at him. But while he’d taken that moment to glance at you, he’d missed the fork in the road, and now, there was nowhere to turn around, so he just pushed on, hoping there was a cabin at the end of this road.

The canopy of trees barely did anything to slow the onslaught of water against Baby’s roof. If you muttered anything under your breath, the sound would be swallowed before it ever made it to his ears. He didn’t even bother with the radio. It was barely after noon, and it looked more like dusk already.

He’d watched it roll in throughout the morning. Big, puffy white clouds that looked harmless with the sun dancing off them. They weren’t storm clouds. Not to him. Storm clouds were grey and thick and always looked threatening. These things looked like something out of a cartoon. 

Until they didn’t.

Dean had even pushed to have breakfast at the diner instead of getting something quick from the gas station that morning after the two of you had packed up the room. Teasing you over the way your hair frizzed probably wasn’t one of his wisest of moves during breakfast.

Things were fine on the drive into the woods, even as the clouds thickened. They still weren’t dark. The stupid werewolf was holed up in one of the furthest cabins in the woods outside the town, using it as a base of operations and getting far too comfortable. Four dead. Hearts gone. And whether he wanted to admit it or not, you had figured out where the thing was.

It didn’t start as a downpour. A few sprinkles when he parked a distance from the cabin, deciding to go the rest of the way on foot so as not to alert the werewolf. You hadn’t said much to him on the drive, but he’d made a few comments he now realizes he shouldn’t have.

By the time the two of you took care of the thing, it was really coming down. Both of you half soaked just from running back to the Impala. Your hair was a mess. The kind of mess that made you look even more attractive in his eyes. Then the glaring had started once the machetes got tossed in the back seat. Most of the blood had dripped off on the run, thanks to the rain.

“Just pull over,” you grumbled, “We’ll just have to wait it out.”

Dean glanced over at you briefly, not wanting to take his eyes off the little bit of road he could see. “Na. We’ll wait it out up the road a bit.” 

The cockiness in his tone had you shooting a death glare at him, and he briefly wondered if you might kill him right then and there.

With a huff, you shifted in your seat, back pressed firmly against the cushion now. If you looked at him much longer, you were probably going to go off on him. Again. It wasn’t that you two hated each other. You guys were sort of friends, and you worked well as a team during hunts. But that was about it. He said shit that annoyed the hell out of you. So you retaliated with things you knew annoyed him. Which usually included snagging his last slice of pie.

The thunder, when it came, startled you every time. It wasn’t consistent. You weren’t afraid of storms. You respected the damage they could wreak when they were like this. Storms like this brought floods. Quick ones most never saw coming, and the puddles weren’t looking much like puddles anymore.

When Dean finally pulled up to the cabin he had remembered from the aerial image, it was at least on a higher plateau than the road. He parked as close as he could to the steps of the porch, which luckily was covered, even if it wasn’t doing much with the angle the rain was coming down. 

“Come on.”

The moment he killed the engine, you glanced back at the trunk, lips pressed into a thin line. “We’re gonna get soaked,” you sighed, shaking your head a bit.

Soaked was an understatement. The moment you pushed the door open, you had to move quickly to close the door, or Baby’s interior might get ruined. Dean was at the trunk quicker than you were, popping it open and grabbing the bags. He tossed yours to you, then slammed the trunk closed, darting to the porch, you right on his heels. Dean didn’t bother trying to pick the lock; it was open, and dry inside.

He tossed his bag on the couch as you dropped yours on the floor. Water had seeped through your jeans, shoes, and flannel. It hadn’t been cold that morning, so you hadn’t worn your jacket. Your hair was dripping, much like your clothes.

Dean looked just as wet, which, to you, was a small consolation prize for him not listening to you. But he was wearing his jacket, meaning his shirt and flannel were probably dryer than yours. 

The cabin was nice. One of the rentals that was always booked during tourist season, when the weather was nice. Or for the snowbirds who enjoyed living off-grid in the middle of winter. But during the rainy season, all the cabins sat empty, and you understood why. 

The living room consisted of a couch, coffee table, fireplace, and opened up into the small kitchen. To the right was a door that led to the bedroom and bathroom, furnished with only a bed, dresser, and nightstand. At least the bathroom had a decent-sized tub; you were already debating soaking in just to take the chill off your bones. And it wasn’t a motel.

“Looks like we’ve got power and running water,” Dean stated from the kitchen as you stood at the foot of the bed. “Not sure about heat though.”

You didn’t respond, debating challenging him for the bed, as the couch didn’t look as comfortable. He paused in the doorframe, trying not to stare at you. You almost looked like a drowned rat. “Why don’t you get changed into something dry?” he suggested, clearing his throat before grabbing your bag and tossing it on the foot of the bed. 

The bath would have to wait. “Thanks,” you mumbled, already reaching for the comfort of clothing that wasn’t clinging to your skin and squishing in your shoes.

Dean slipped out, closing the door behind him, knowing he’d only be torturing himself if he hadn’t. Then, he worked at getting a fire going to take the chill off things and maybe help dry both your wet clothes.

Five minutes later, you emerged from the room. Sweats. Baggy Metallica shirt he swore was his. And fluffy socks on your feet. You at least felt warmer. “I hung my wet stuff in the bathroom since it was dripping.” Your tone wasn’t mean, but it wasn’t warm either, and Dean noticed quickly. “There’s food in the cabinets. Canned stuff,” he offered, knowing full well how cranky you could be when you didn’t eat.

For a moment, your brow furrowed. He was being… nice. Dean didn’t typically apologize for things, even when he knew he should. You’d been hunting with him and his brother for nearly three years now, and that was one of the things you’d learned quickly. Along with how his anger worked.

With the fire going, Dean grabbed his bag off the couch, headed into the bedroom to change, closing the door behind him. The click of the handle disappearing to the pounding of rain against the roof. You headed over to the fireplace, crouching down and letting the warmth wash over you. At least the idiot knew how to build a decent fire. You slipped the pieces of cotton into your ears, helping to muffle the sounds to an octave that wasn’t overwhelming. Then, you just plopped down on your butt, legs pulled against your chest as your chin rested on your knees.

This was not how you’d intended to spend your day, and possibly the night—stuck in a cabin, in the middle of the woods, with Dean friggin Winchester. The man who has seemed to make it his personal mission to annoy the hell out of you nearly every damn day since accepting you into his and his brother’s little circle.

When Dean finally emerged from the bedroom, you didn’t glance over, keeping your eyes on the dancing fire in the hearth. Dean, on the other hand, froze for a moment when his eyes took in your posture. You looked so… small. 

Sure, he got to see you relaxed all the time in your comfy clothes, as you called them. But this felt different. He just couldn’t put his finger on why. Even with that, the way the fire danced off your skin, you almost seemed to glow.

He cleared his throat, making his way to the small kitchen, opening cabinets, and setting things on the counter. “I’m no five-star chef or anything, but I can at least whip us up something to eat,” he stated, trying to find a way to lighten the tension that seemed to fill the cabin in the short time he’d changed. God, it felt worse than it was in Baby earlier.

Again, you didn’t respond, only causing his lips to purse into a thin line and slowing his movements. “Look, I’m sorry, alright?” he finally sighed, resting his hands on the edge of the counter.

You finally glanced over at him, brow furrowing as you studied him. The tension in his shoulders. The way he leaned partially over the counter, like it was the only thing holding him up at the moment. 

“I really thought we’d be done and out of this town before it hit,” he admitted, something he didn’t do often, not even with Sam.

You shifted, turning your body so you could face him more. “Why do you always do that? Ignore me when I tell you something is gonna happen,” you asked, trying not to sound as annoyed as you still were.

He heard it anyway. He always did. And, he really didn’t have an answer that wouldn’t annoy you further. So, he shrugged his shoulders and went back to figuring out food for the two of you.

That annoyed you, probably as much as if he had tried to use some cocky line about being able to outrun a storm, or some dumb shit he always said. Although, to be fair, he hadn’t made a single joke about the situation or about your… nature.

He’d wanted to. God, he’d wanted to. Cats hated water. The normal ones, anyway. So far, he hadn’t even heard you growling at being uncomfortable when you were soaked. Or maybe the sound of the storm had drowned it out, too, and he just missed it.

With a roll of your eyes, you turned back toward the fire. “I get the bed,” you stated, matter-of-factly, “since I don’t get mine tonight if we’re stuck here that long.”

Dean groaned, which luckily the storm was loud enough to hide. He knew he shouldn’t push it, but that never stopped him from constantly putting his foot in his mouth with you.

“Well, since I’m doing all the work, I get the bed as my reward,” he smirked, figuring you wouldn’t have an arguing point on that.

You turned to face him again, sheer disbelief etched into your features. “If you’d listened to me in the first place, we wouldn’t be stuck here. So, the bed is my compensation for your stubbornness,” you told him, your tone leaving no room for argument, but you knew he’d come back with something. He always did.

He should have kept his focus on the cans he’d pulled out, but no. He just had to glance over his shoulder at you. And… damn. Why the hell did you always have to look so damn attractive when you were pissed?

“Sorry, Sweetheart,” he smirked, that cocky one you always wanted to punch off his smug face, “bed’s mine tonight. Besides, can’t cats get comfortable anywhere?” He knew he shouldn’t have added that last bit, but again, with you, he really couldn’t help himself.

You typically didn’t growl. Not like when you were younger. But Dean seemed to have a knack for finding every single nerve that had you growling at him in seconds flat. It might have been intimidating, had the storm not decided that would be the moment thunder ripped through the sky, causing you to jump. 

Dean chuckled, shaking his head, and went back to getting the food going. Soup. Even if it was canned. It was the good stuff. Thick chunks of meat. Decent-sized vegetables. And the soup itself wasn’t that watered-down stuff. The contents of both cans went into a pot and onto the stove.

“Asshole,” you muttered under your breath before turning back toward the fire. 

In truth, the bed was a king. So, technically, it would have given you both enough room with space between you. But you didn’t want to share a bed with him. Something about it just felt too damn intimate, and it wasn’t like you’d be able to sleep like that.

He enjoyed women. You’d heard it when on cases. Once it was solved, he’d typically get another room, go to a bar to pick up some random chick, then fuck her till she was screaming his name from three rooms away.

Most times, you covered your head with a pillow, because even the cotton in your ears couldn’t drown out the sounds. It was those reasons you didn’t want to share a bed with him. You’d think of things you really didn’t want to picture. 

Why won’t he ever look at me like he does them? The thought intruded before you could stop it. You knew the answer: you weren’t human, they were. He hunted monsters, things that weren’t human. 

Thunder rumbled through the sky, sending a shiver up your spine, even with the warmth before you. The fire danced and shifted in the hearth, almost hypnotizing in its movements.

Dean didn’t glance back over at you, even though he wanted to. Normally, you’d be yelling at him. Probably pointing a finger at him to help push your point as to why he’d been the one in the wrong. A smirk tugged at his lips just thinking about it. The fire in your eyes when you did that was nearly as intoxicating as when they went soft patching him up.

It wasn’t sitting right with him, tugging at his instincts. Was it that time of the month for you? Did Touched even get those things? Did you get those things since you were more like a cat? His movement stilled, spoon mid-stir. Cats went into heat. 

He risked a glance over his shoulder. You were still sitting in front of the fire, almost like it had hypnotized you where you sat. Dean shook his head. No. I’d know if it was that. So why the hell were you so damn silent? The storm being as loud as it was would have given you the best opportunity to really yell at him, having to shout over the torrential downpour pounding against the roof.

The sounds of him pouring the soup into bowls and the clatter of dishes disappeared with another crack of thunder. He swore it was the worst right over the cabin, but grabbed the bowls, footsteps just as lost as he crossed the space.

“Here.” He presented the steaming bowl of soup without fanfare, and you took it just as plainly. Hell, he barely heard your mumbled thanks before you cradled the bowl in your lap.

His chest deflated with a huff. For a moment, he debated just sitting next to you, but you really didn’t look interested in him being that close. You never really did. So he just sank into the couch, staring at your back as he started eating.

While he ate, finding he actually liked this particular brand of soup, he thought about the last three years, and you. Sure, at first, he was reluctant to let you get close to either him or his brother. But leave it to Sam, who reminded him that they hunted down things that hurt people, not things that, most times, acted more human than normal humans.

He hadn’t admitted that he was attracted to you from day one. How could he not be? You were stubborn, mouthy, annoying, just as cocky as him, and you purred like a damn cat out of the blue half the time. Yeah, his mind had gone places. 

So, he’d tried. How could he not? But apparently Sam had gone and ruined things for him, telling you all about his ‘affinity’ with women, and you’d shot him down before he’d even gotten the pick-up line halfway out. Dean had laid into Sam for that one when you weren’t around to hear it, of course.

That first year had been learning how to adjust to you hunting with them. Your skills alone had changed everything for them. They were good, sure. But you? Your senses gave you an advantage that had them getting hurt far less, and half their cases had taken half the time it would have had you not been with them.

He still flirted with you. Well, he tried. And every damn time he did, you’d quip back with something that had him blushing. God, you were mouthy, and he’d pictured more times than he dared admit about fucking you stupid so you couldn’t mouth off.

A smirk tugged at his lips for a moment, till his eyes focused again, noting how you still hadn’t moved, even if you were eating. He could tell that much from how your shoulder moved. Why weren’t you yelling at him? “How’s the soup?” He’d risk getting yelled at. It’d be better than the silence from you. Something he could focus on instead of the roar of the rain hammering into the cabin roof from an angle that occasionally rattled the windows.

“It’s okay,” you muttered, and he barely heard you. It was. Your mind was just elsewhere—hours from now. After the sun went down, your body demanded rest. To the single bed sitting casually in the bedroom with the deep-toned comforter.

His brow furrowed, as that hadn’t helped, and it was barely anything. Air left his nose in a huff before he shifted on the couch, bringing another spoonful of soup to his lips.

It was going to be a long damn night if this was how things were gonna go. You reached behind you, only partially turning to set your empty bowl on the coffee table between the two of you. It hadn’t been bad, but it was a little too salty for your liking. Being able to taste things like you could made enjoying processed foods a little… difficult. You hadn’t wanted him to feel bad, and that annoyed you.

Why the hell do I care how he feels? You rested your elbows on your knees, then your face in your palms, still staring at the fire. It was easier than looking at him. Sure, you still wanted to yell at him, but being stuck in the cabin with nowhere to go but out into the pouring rain… You were the one who typically stormed off, so a fight wasn’t the best idea right now.

His bare feet were silent when he gathered your bowl and his, heading back into the little kitchen to wash what he’d used. No point in leaving a mess for someone else to clean up since this was an unexpected stay. He wasn’t always an ass.

Hours. 

Hours until sundown. Hours until the fight about the bed would start again. Hours until you would look at him. Hours until he might be able to find out why you were so silent. And it was driving him a bit crazy. Normally, he enjoyed silence when he chose it. This though? This was getting to him, scrubbing the dishes with more force than what was needed just for his hands to have something to do. He hadn’t even grabbed his weapons bag, only thinking of dry clothes for the two of you. So he wasn’t even able to distract himself with cleaning them long into the night, even if he could accomplish it within hours. 

You didn’t really know what to do with yourself. Opening your mouth meant dealing with him brushing you off or teasing you about something, and you just weren’t in the mood. The noise of the storm was already making it hard to think. It was bad enough that with every strike of thunder, your already tense muscles pulled tighter. A hot bath would be nice, if there were more than one bathroom.

The later it got, the darker it got. The only light coming from the fire in the hearth, spilling around your still form. Dean had paced, sat on the couch until his foot started tapping the wood floor, then paced some more. There was nothing to do. This place didn’t even have a TV. It was like it was designed to isolate people away from society for a breather while bringing a couple together with just themselves and the forest. There wasn’t even a damn radio, although he figured it wouldn’t be able to pick up a signal through this storm.

He glanced at you from behind the couch. You’d barely moved more than to shift how you were sitting, back still toward the rest of the room. Is she seriously gonna give me the silent treatment all damn night? So he hadn’t gotten the two of you out of town before the storm hit, but it could be worse. Right? You two could be stuck waiting this out in the Impala instead of a decent cabin.

With a huff of breath, he headed into the bedroom again, but when he went to flick on the light, nothing happened. Dean’s brow furrowed, then flipped the switch a couple more times just for good measure.

“Great. As if shit couldn’t get worse,” he muttered, grabbing his bag off the bed. At least the roof didn’t leak.

He tossed it down on the coffee table, using the bit of light from the fire to see, but he was going by feel. His fingers brushed over jeans, flannel, soft fabric, and elastic bands before he finally found what he was looking for: the small backup flashlight he kept there.

The clicking of it and the light hitting the floor pulled your attention. You only tilted your head a bit, watching him before shaking your head and looking back at the fire. You’d be just as restless as him if you allowed yourself to get to your feet. At least the fire gave your mind something else to focus on, no matter how sore your muscles were getting from the tension that refused to ease.

The beam cut through the dark like a blade through grass. He finally felt like he had something to do. Before, it had only been getting food together and making sure you were fed. Now, though, it was about finding something for light other than the fire and his flashlight.

He pulled open drawers, cabinets, and cupboards. Most of the sounds getting swallowed by the rain pelting the roof and the thunder when it tore the sky open and shook the windows. The package of batteries he found got set on the coffee table before he headed into the bedroom again.

The closet and dresser didn’t hold much. Blankets on the shelf above empty hangers. His lips fell at the sides with a breath out his nose. Nothing particularly useful. He pushed the doors closed and moved on. The dresser was completely empty.

The little nightstand held only one drawer, which was also empty. He was trying not to be annoyed. The situation sucked with whatever mood you were currently in. Grumbling under his breath, he headed into the bathroom.

Jackpot. 

Several candles were sitting on the counter. More in the linen closet with extra towels and washcloths. He gathered several in his arms, pressing them to his chest, and rejoined you in the living room, beaming like he’d won the lottery.

He clicked the flashlight off, tossing it back into his bag before setting the candles down and fishing in his pockets for his lighter. 

You turned to watch him, more confused than earlier. “Why don’t you just turn on a light?”

Dean paused mid-light of the second candle for a moment before continuing. “Powers out.” He couldn’t look at you, not wanting to see if you were mad or frowning, mostly since whenever you frowned, it looked like a pout, and his mind came up with far too many things he couldn’t act on.

“When did that happen?” you asked, shifting so that you were facing him now. Sure, you were still annoyed at him, but you knew how to set things aside when you needed to.

He shrugged, “Not sure.”

Dean sat down on the floor with a grunt, finally looking over at you, and for a moment, he forgot how to breath. Your hair was dry, but it was doing that thing where the ends curled a bit, and some of it refused to lay neatly with the rest.  The glow of the fire made you look soft. Softer than you typically were around him, unless you were patching him up. Then there was how the candlelight danced in your eyes.

You were actually looking at him, trying to figure out what was going through his head, while simultaneously realizing what he’d changed into—sweats, an old band shirt, and his red and black plaid flannel pulled over it. Slowly, your eyes traveled down, noticing he was barefoot, before meeting his gaze again.

His ears warmed, thankful for the dim lighting, an almost boyish smirk on his lips. “Wanna take a picture? It’ll last longer,” he asked, the words rolling off his tongue like velvet and honey. 

You just rolled your eyes, looking to the flickering candles. “I live with you. Just surprised you’re not dressed in jeans and ready to walk out the door.”

Thunder roared across the sky, sending another jolt of tension through your muscles. It wasn’t even pretending to lighten up. 

He noticed. He usually did, at least when he was paying attention. For a moment, he debated asking about it, but decided against letting things get too personal. “Well, with the storm like it is, figured we might be here for more than just the night. Ya know?” 

Rain pelted the roof. Still in sheets. Loud and unrelenting. He paused only to see if you’d say something. Anything. But the longer the silence stretched, the more his nerves got to him. “Umm… we probably won’t be able to head out when the rain stops,” he admitted, words rougher than he meant before he cleared his throat and swallowed his guilt. “Roads are gonna have to dry out a bit before Baby’ll make it down ‘em.”

Those really weren’t the words you wanted to hear, even if your mind had already thought about it all. You reached toward the closest candle, the flickering fire of the wick dancing softly. “So, we’re stuck here,” you mumbled, and he barely heard you above the rain.

His eyes followed the movements of your finger, the way it played with the small flame, and he couldn’t help but smile. Like a cat and a damn laser pointer. He managed to keep the thought to himself, knowing you’d probably stop. And right now? You at least looked like you were trying to relax.

“At least we’ve got a decent roof over our heads.” He tried for optimism. Looking on the brighter side, like you typically did. But you didn’t smile. You didn’t even look back at him.

“And if you’d listened to me, we wouldn’t be stuck here at all.”

The flatness of your tone slowly killed his smile. You were right. He’d even apologized earlier for not listening. 

Dean scrubbed his hand down his face, “What else do you want me to say? I can’t go back and change it.” It came out far harsher than he’d meant it to, and the glare you snapped at him had him regretting even opening his mouth.

“There’s nothing you can say,” you snapped, hand landing hard enough on the table to make the candles flicker. “We’re stuck out here, and it’s all your fault.” He was already feeling bad enough, but did you seriously need to rub it in like that? “And there’s nothing we can do about it now,” he snapped back, because that was how it usually went between the two of you. “I’m not gonna grovel at your feet and beg for your damn forgiveness.” This time when you growled, he heard it. He still found it fascinating, the feline sounds you could make, even after three years of you being a part of his and his brother’s life. He just tended to prefer the nicer sounds.

His lips betrayed him with that damned cocky smirk. He just couldn’t help himself. “Awe, that’s cute, Kitten.” The words came out smooth, like silk, using the one pet name that you’d made abundantly clear you hated. “Afraid to get stuck in a cabin with just little ‘ol me?”

The growl rumbling in your chest deepened before the pitch went higher. He was annoying you. He knew it. You knew it. It was the damned pattern that always happened, and you were too tense to shut your mouth and walk away.

“Was this your stupid plan all along? Are you and Sam fighting, and that’s why you didn’t want to go back to the bunker right away?” You growled, eyes still boring into his with a fire not even this storm could put out.

He was taken aback by your questions. “What? No,” he defended. “You think I’d deliberately get myself stuck with you with no way to escape? I’m not suicidal.” He regretted the words the moment they left his lips, but it wasn’t like he could take them back now. 

You quickly looked away from him, your hair falling over your shoulder and half hiding your face as you stared back at the candles, jaw working. “Yeah, cause who wants to get stuck with a monster?” you mumbled under your breath.

Before Dean could even begin to process what had just happened, you were pushing to your feet and storming into the bedroom. The slam of the door was followed by another crack of thunder. He leaned back, hand moving over his face again. Damnit.

You paced at the foot of the bed, pausing after a few passes and chewing on your thumbnail. Every time you glanced at the bed, all you could manage was trying to picture being able to sleep in it. It was too big. Even your bed back at the bunker was smaller. You’d pushed it into the corner against the wall. Then filled the space between where you laid and the wall with two large body pillows.

I’m never gonna be able to sleep in that. The thought was annoying, almost as much as Dean had been, but you wanted the bed out of principle. Being honest while angry wasn’t your strongest suit. You’d be able to sleep on the couch far easier, your back pressed into the back cushions like your bed, and the body pillows.

The next crack of thunder had you growling, more from the tension it pulled into your shoulders. Your eyes snapped to the window when the lightning came, illuminating everything outside far longer than you liked. Branches were moving with the force of the wind, and for a moment, you were worried the wind might be strong enough to actually cause some serious damage.

You shook your head. I can’t think about all that. I’ll just stress myself out more. You forced your lungs to work properly. Slow, deep breaths. In through your nose. Out through your mouth. You hadn’t even realized how quickly your heart had been beating until you attempted to calm your breathing.

Slowly, you lowered yourself onto the foot of the bed, keeping your back straight as you focused on your breaths. It sort of worked, mostly because your mind kept drifting back to Dean and what he’d said.

If he hadn’t wanted to be stuck with me, why was he being nice earlier? Why was he being nice at all? Did he actually feel bad about this? 

You frowned, another annoyed growl rumbling in your chest as your fists clenched over your knees. “Jerk,” you mumbled, daring a glance at the door. Still closed. Good.

Dean stared at the door for a while after you’d slammed it. He’d put his foot in his mouth. Again. Something he seemed better at than actually saying what he meant. 

Fuck. How the hell do I fix this one?

The flickering candles danced off the walls, casting shadows everywhere they couldn’t reach. He put three of them out, then picked up the fourth and went back into the kitchen. The small pantry held more canned goods on most of the shelves. Spare spices. Boxed things that took a few years to go bad. But among those, he found a box of brownie mix, and an idea began forming. He grabbed the box, quickly read the ingredients needed, and headed to the fridge. The carton of eggs in the fridge caught his eye, and after pulling it out, he double checked the expiration date. To be doubly safe, he did a float test on the two he needed, a relieved breath coming out as his shoulders relaxed.

As he worked, he occasionally glanced over at the bedroom door. You hadn’t opened it and snuck back out, so he kept working. At least the oven ran on propane and not electricity, or his idea would have been a complete bust.

The storm wasn’t calming, but at least it wasn’t getting worse. His mind kept drifting to how you tensed when the thunder came. Was it a cat thing? Were you afraid of storms? He tried thinking back to other times, but Sam had always been there. 

He pushed the pan onto the second rack in the oven, noting the time before closing it and leaning back against the counter, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the floor. Sam had always been there…

You’d always been more comfortable around Sam, or at least, that was how it seemed to Dean. Your laugh was genuine. Not like when you laughed from something Dean said. Those always seemed more annoyed than genuine. And when storms came, Sam pulled out lore books while the two of you acted like a couple of nerds.

Fuck. What the hell am I missing? His gaze lifted to the door, brain in overdrive as the minutes ticked by and rain pelted the roof. Lightning as bright as a spotlight flashing through the heavens after roaring thunder rattled the windows. 

The scent of chocolate wafted from the warm oven, mixing with the scent of the candles and the fire in the hearth, which he’d added another log to not long ago. The least he could do was keep the chill from creeping in that usually accompanied storms like this.

When he pulled the pan of brownies from the oven, he let out a breath, hoping he could manage to at least talk to you. Preferable without putting his foot in his mouth again. He let them cool for the time the box stated, then cut them, set them on a plate, and looked back at the closed door.

Please don’t let her bite my head off. He wasn’t praying to anything in particular, plate balanced on his arm and palm, candle in hand. His feet moved across the floor before he could talk himself out of this.

His free hand flexed as he reached for the doorknob, breath mostly steady, even if his nerves weren’t. Slowly, he twisted the knob, pushing the door open just as slowly. If it weren’t for the candle in his hand, he never would have been able to see through the darkness.

Cool air moved across his bare feet as warm air began replacing it. The sight of you on the foot of the bed, legs pulled up to your chest, arms wrapped around them, and your chin on your knees pulled at something in his chest. 

“Found something that might make this a little more tolerable,” he offered, trying to sound casual, and failing miserably.

You hadn’t even looked over at him. Not when he set the candle on the dresser. Not when he sat beside you on the edge of the bed, one knee pulled up while leaving some space between you. He held out the plate of still-hot brownies like a peace offering.

“I’m sorry… for getting us stuck out here,” he apologized again, deep and gravely, but genuinely sincere. “And for the record, I don’t mind being stuck here with you. Just wish you weren’t so pissed at me.” No matter how damn sexy you are when you’re pissed.

For a moment, you didn’t move. The scent of warm, soft brownies filling the space around you, along with Dean’s, almost began to relax you. But another sharp crack of thunder stiffened every muscle all over again, even though you tried not to let it.

His brow furrowed, and no matter how much he didn’t want to piss you off, he couldn’t help but ask. “Are you afraid of the storm?” At least it’d come out how he meant it this time, genuine, and far softer than he usually is.

“No,” you mumbled, glancing down at the plate he’d set down in the space between you. “I just don’t have anything to stay distracted from it, and there’s no pattern to it.”

It took a few moments for your words to sink in, his mind replaying how Sam was with you during storms in motel rooms. Sam distracts her… He knew where his mind should have gone, but his thoughts never were very kind when he needed them to be. It decided to picture all the ways he could distract you from the storm and your thoughts before he could shut that door.

Hell, he barely missed you picking up one of the brownies and taking a bite of it, but he didn’t miss the way you looked at him. Puzzled, like you had no clue why he was even there across from you.

He cleared his throat, trying to ignore how he twitched in his sweats. “Not quite sure how to help distract you,” he went with, praying you couldn’t notice how he was forcing himself to only look at your eyes.

The frown that pulled your lips down looked more like a pout. It always did, and he went for a brownie, just to keep his hand and mouth occupied, even if his mind was playing out just how well he could distract you.

“You could talk to me like I’m a normal person and not someone you enjoy annoying,” you grumbled, turning your head away from him and taking another bite as your annoyance flared. Was he incapable of treating me like a person because I’m not human?

But you look so damn cute when you’re annoyed, or pissed, or whiny. Nope. He wasn’t about to let that thought pass his lips. “I do talk to you like you’re a normal person,” he protested teasingly, and he smirked when you rolled your eyes. Fuck. I did it again. 

“Look,” he sighed, setting his brownie down, “I don’t hate you or anything. I don’t really know how to talk to you without you being annoyed at what comes out of my mouth.”

The frown on your lips deepened into one of the most adorable pouts he’d seen on you yet. And when you met his gaze again, he damn near groaned.

Is he trying to be nice? Or is he just going to end up being a jerk in two minutes? “Explain,” you stated, like you would with Sam when he brought up some obscure lore fact.

Dean chuckled, the sound getting lost among the pounding against the roof. “You always think I’m trying to annoy you,” he began, straightening up a little like he was about to reveal some secret that only he knew. “Most times, I’m just trying to joke around with you. Get you to lighten up. Not be so serious all the time.”

You tilted your head, that curious cat way that had your hair falling over your far shoulder, eyes studying his features like you did when you focused on research. It was intoxicating when you did it with books. But with you doing it to him? His heart stuttered as his stomach fluttered. Damn. What am I? Some teenager with a fucking crush?

“Then why do you push things when I get mad?” you asked, laced with curiosity that typically was never directed at him anymore. Not after those first six months.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, shifting uncomfortably where he sat, wishing he had something strong to drink. He’d been sober since he woke up, and it was getting to him. Doing this with a little liquid courage would have been nice.

The silence stretched, but your focus was entirely on him, trying to decipher whatever was going through his head. When the next crack of thunder came, you didn’t even flinch.

Dean eyed you for a moment longer, sighed, and looked down at his half-eaten brownie. “You look kinda cute when you’re pissed,” he mostly mumbled with a shrug, trying for nonchalance, and failing miserably.

Your brow knit together. “Does this have to do with you still wanting to sleep with me?” you asked, no longer curious but annoyed. Three years and that’s all he still wants. Figures.

His eyes snapped up to yours the moment he heard the change in your tone. How the hell do I answer that without pissing her off again? But if he was honest, he knew there was a possibility you might not even speak to him again.

“Kinda,” he shrugged, hoping that by playing it down, you wouldn’t react badly, but the glare you gave him had him quickly adding, “but it’s different now.”

You crossed your arms, expression right back to the same one you had in the car hours ago.

He looked away, no matter how cute you looked. He didn’t need his thoughts fucking this up any more than his mouth already had. “Look, I’m not good at this, alright?” he muttered, and it came out gruff, raw. He wasn’t mad at you, just at himself.

“Not good at what? Being nice?” you practically sneered at him.

“See. That’s what I mean,” he snapped, glaring at you in return. “You take everything I say and twist it around so you can be pissed at me.”

The indignation that crossed your face didn’t faze him. He could only open up so much, and you’d done it again. “Oh, so now it’s my fault you’re a jerk towards me?” you scoffed, shifting so you were mimicking how he was sitting.

“Yeah,” he raised his voice, “I literally tried to tell you that I’m not good at talking about feelings, and you think I’m being an ass on purpose.”

You just rolled your eyes, too annoyed to truly let his words sink in. “Fine. Blame your emotional constipation on me if it makes you feel better. I’m still not sleeping with you,” you threw the last part in just to get under his skin.

His hands clenched into fists as he stood up, trying to calm his anger with deep breaths while staring at the ceiling. He could still feel you glaring at him, like a brand hot against his skin. 

Thunder snapped through the sky, but your focus was entirely on him now, mind already coming up with plenty to throw right back at him, depending on what came out of his mouth next.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered, taking another deep breath before looking down at you. Why the fuck does she get to look so hot while shooting daggers at me? “You think all I want is to sleep with you. God, you’re more of an idiot than I am,” he half-chuckled, half-scoffed. 

“What the hell am I supposed to think, Dean? The first day we met, you tried to get in my pants and never really stopped,” you shot back, which was mostly true. He’d cut back for about three months while he’d come to terms with the fact that you weren’t human.

That cocky smirk graced his lips again—the one you always wanted to smack off.

He was thinking about that day, when he knew he shouldn’t have been. The way you handled your whiskey in the bar, and the way you shot him down like he was just some annoyance, instead of how other women typically swooned at his feet. It was like a challenge he’d intended to win, up until he got to know you.

It’d changed, and he’d denied it for nearly a year, but he learned you. Your habits. Your favorites. And the things that annoyed you. At least when you were annoyed, you were interacting with him. He knew it wasn’t the healthiest way of doing things, but nothing else seemed to work to get your attention.

“Maybe think about how it changed,” he shrugged, moving toward the window and watching the darkness beyond the glass as the rain ran down it in sheets.

Confusion swirled through your eyes as you watched him. “How it changed?” you echoed, but with more annoyance than nonchalance or curiosity. “How you’ll flirt with any bimbo that gives you bedroom eyes, but with me, all you do is try to piss me off, but still want to sleep with me?” He didn’t move, feeling you staring daggers into his back. Part of him wasn’t quite sure what the argument was about at this point, lips pursed into a thin line. Why the hell can’t she just listen instead of reacting? Well, she did at least have how it was different, sort of. 

“I don’t just want to sleep with you,” he stated, keeping his tone as even as he could manage, even with as deep as the words came out.

“Oh. I get it,” you scoffed, “You’re just looking for an easy lay when you can’t get a piece.”

Dean turned around so damn fast the room spun for a moment before he leveled you with a look you nearly flinched from. He looked pissed. Good. Bout damn time I finally found a nerve. He’s always pressing my buttons.

The way he stalked over, shoulders squared and tense, hands in fists at his sides, steps purposeful. It reminded you of when he focused on a hunt.

“Strike a nerve?” you mused with a smirk of triumph.

Infuriating woman! He pointed a finger at you, but you held his gaze. Stop glaring at me like that, or I might do something I’ll probably regret later. “If all I wanted was an easy lay, I wouldn’t bother with you,” he damn near growled, having no clue how to get his point across.

You tilted your head, that smirk still on your lips. Sam had warned you about pushing him when he got like this, but for once, he was the one pissed off instead of you. Seeing the tables turned felt a little empowering in the moment.

“Why? Cause I’m not easy?” you mused, enjoying watching the anger flash in his eyes instead of things being the other way around. “'Cause I won’t just swoon at your feet and be another notch on your belt?”

The growl that rumbled in his chest actually startled you, but in a way you thought you’d pushed beneath layers of darkness. You knew he didn’t do commitment, so you refused to ever think he’d want something meaningful. He liked his freedom, his booze, and women. “Damnit, woman!” he growled, looming over you. “Why can’t you see how it’s different with you?!”

He stormed out of the room before he did something he’d regret. Whether that was kiss you or saying something completely stupid. The slam of the door was lost in the thunder, your eyes still on where he disappeared to.

You plucked your brownie from the plate, taking another bite while reveling in finally making him be the one to walk away. He’d done it to you plenty over the last three years. Turnabout was fair play. And when you finished that first brownie, you ate another before placing the plate on the dresser near the candle, blowing it out, and slipping beneath the covers of the bed.

He paced the living room, hands still balled into fists, muttering curses under his breath with thoughts that got swallowed in the noise of the rain. The fire flickered in the hearth, embers crackling under the heat. Sam would have known what to say to you to get you to hear him. He always did. Whether it was lore or about you stealing Dean’s last slice of pie, which you did often. You always listened instead of reacting. 

His steps faltered mid-pace. 

Did you have a thing for Sam? Was that why you constantly shot him down, no matter how nice he was?

As if on cue, his mind began replaying every single moment he’d seen the two of you together. Your laughter was always lighter. Your smile was always softer, sometimes playful. Your words were always kinder, sometimes teasing. 

He barely registered sitting down on the couch, gaze distant even if it was aimed at the fire.

No matter what played out in his head, he never noticed you flirting with his brother. He’d seen you flirt with guys at bars. When you wanted something, you had a way of getting it. Batting those damn lashes with that sultry look in your eyes. He could see it clear across any barroom, and it always made his blood boil. The first time it happened, he’d nearly broken the glass beer bottle in his hand before switching to whiskey just to shut his thoughts and emotions up. Then he’d taken one of the waitresses out back and fucked her just to get it out of his system.

“No. She doesn’t have a thing for Sam,” he mumbled, thoughts slipping past his lips.

He glanced at the window near the door, debating going out to Baby for the bottle of whiskey he kept in the trunk, but changed his mind as the rain hit just a little harder.

“Stupid storm, won’t even let me have some damned liquid courage,” he grumbled, glaring back at the fire. Irritation itched along his skin, never letting his nerves settle.

You weren’t quite sure how many times you shifted or how long it had been since you’d laid down, but you couldn’t manage to get comfortable. Not on the large bed. Not with it sitting in the middle of the room. 

The light under the door told you that the fire was still going in the hearth, even if it had dimmed quite a bit, and Dean hadn’t forced himself into the bedroom to claim the other half of the bed like you figured he would have. At which point, you’d already decided you would go sleep on the couch.

You’d even tried using the spare blankets in the closet as something to have against your back. First, in the middle of the bed, and when that didn’t work, you’d tried with them along the edge of the side you’d claimed. Neither had been enough to quell the way your stomach knotted and your muscles tensed. Plus, the thunder wasn’t helping either. Then there was the lightning. Every time it lit everything up, you could see that the bed was in the middle of the room, too much space on either side of it. 

If it weren’t for your feline nature of needing to feel secure where you slept, people would have labeled it autism. You curled into a ball on your side, half around the pillow beneath your head, and the purring began. It didn’t matter that the sound was drowned out by the storm. The vibrations it sent through you was all you needed. 

Dean’s words kept echoing in your head, none of them making much sense. The triumph you’d felt earlier had been slowly replaced with guilt for pushing him so far, and you wondered if he ever felt like that when he did it to you.

You didn’t hear the click of the doorknob, or his footsteps across the floor. Too lost in your mind and emotions.

When another bright flash of lightning flared, his breath hitched. You looked so damn small again. Like you had when you’d been sitting in front of the fire. “Fuck it,” he mumbled, moving cautiously into the bed on the opposite side. If you hit him, he’d deal with it later.

You froze, feeling the bed dip under his weight, breath catching in your lungs, fingers digging into the pillow. I should get up, let him have the bed before he thinks it’s an invitation.

Within seconds, his warmth was pressed against your back, his hand resting on your shoulder over your shirt—the vibrations of your purring moving through his muscles. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, breath fanning over your hair as he felt you tense. “I won’t try anything. You just looked like you were cold.”

You didn’t want to let yourself relax into him, but the way his scent enveloped you and the way his warmth seeped into your tense muscles? Well, that didn’t seem to care about the thoughts that played through your head.

“I’m not cold,” you mumbled, curling in on yourself a little more, not wanting to give in to what you’d buried. 

His brow knitted together as he shifted just enough to look down at the top of your head, his hand sliding down just a little, past your sleeve and against your skin. You weren’t cold. Then why the hell were you so damned tense?

He pursed his lips, wondering if opening his mouth would just result in another argument. “Why are you so tense then?” he asked quietly, carefully, like he was bracing for your fist to connect with his face.

The next crack of thunder had your body tensing further, and he remembered what you said earlier, his hand moving slowly up and down your arm. He just wasn’t sure if it was helping or making it worse. “I don’t know how to distract you without pissing you off. Not like Sam can,” he restated, trying to find words that might help you not get angry with him, again. “I don’t want you to think I don’t like you either. I want to help.”

The softness in his voice, the touch of his hand, the warmth at your back, and his steady breathing had your body slowly relaxing into him. It was annoying. “I just don’t want you to think this is an invitation,” you mumbled.

He frowned, sighing as he got comfortable again. “I know it’s not, and I wouldn’t take advantage of you like that, even if it was.”

Your breath hitched, and he felt it against his back, but didn’t call you on it. Which you were grateful for. “Why are you being nice?” Your voice was quieter than you wanted it to be, unable to hold the same confidence as when you yelled at him.

His hand stilled against your skin for a moment before moving again. “I doubt you’d believe me,” he admitted, just as quietly as you had been.

The silence that followed would have been deafening, were it not for the storm raging beyond the walls of the cabin. The pounding of the rain against the roof and the way the thunder seemed to be testing the structure for weaknesses.

But your mind was so focused on what he’d said that your body never tensed further. It only continued to relax until you were stretched out and your back pressed against his chest, breaths even again.

Is it like in grade school, where the boy picks on the girl he likes? The question popped into your mind without warning before memories replayed from the last three years. 

Dean felt you shift slightly, having to angle his hips differently, or things would get awkward—more for him than you. “Try not to move too much,” he muttered, gruffer than he meant but no less pleading. He really was trying to keep things down. Literally. Shoulda wore boxers.

“Sorry,” you apologized quietly, actually meaning it, trying to keep from pressing against his pelvis. “Could you tell me, even if you don’t think I’ll believe you?” 

For a moment, he was puzzled, figuring you would know why he didn’t want you to move around. Then it dawned on him, a small smile tugging at his lips. Fuck it. What’s the worst that’ll happen? She’ll laugh at me?

“After getting us stuck out here, only thing that seemed right to do was to be nice,” he admitted, a slight shrug of his shoulder. “Since you didn’t seem to believe me when I apologized, at least twice.”

You could hear the slight smirk in his words, no matter how genuine they were, and you wanted to curl back in on yourself. 

“Besides,” he continued, daring to drape his arm over your waist, resting his hand on the bed, “I like being nice to you sometimes.”

That puzzled you further, sending your mind down a rabbit hole of memories. How he’d always pick up your favorite road snacks when he stopped for gas. Or when he’d give you one of the actual beds instead of making you take the roll-in spare when it was the three of you, even if he did rile you up before relenting. Then there were the times a bag of your favorite candy bars was sitting on the war room table just days before you were due to start, and you’d always figured that was Sam, up until he told you it wasn’t him.

“Okay. But.. why?” you insisted quietly as your heart sped up, not wanting to dare think or assume anything. Dean didn’t do commitment. Right? 

He sighed, resting his chin on the top of your head. “‘Cause I like you,” he mumbled. “Not quite sure when it happened either. Just sort of looked at you one day and wanted to see you smile cause of me.” 

Now you really wanted to curl in on yourself. “Why wouldn’t you just tell me instead of being mean to me?” Another mumbled question. Monsters were easy to face. Asking about feelings or being vulnerable? That was hard as hell. 

The rumble of his chuckle vibrated through your back. “You wouldn’t have believed me,” he tsked. “At least when you were mad at me, you weren’t ignoring me. Plus,” he shifted a little, feeling a bit bolder since you hadn’t pulled away, “you’re hot as hell when you're pissed. That fire in your eyes. Mmm…”

He really was only torturing himself by thinking about it, warmth spreading through his gut even though he’d said he’d behave and not try anything. 

You were grateful for the dark. He wouldn’t notice the flush in your cheeks. The way he’d said it was more electrifying than any flirtatious thing he’d tossed at you over the years.

“Why do you call me kitten?” you barely managed to ask, praying he couldn’t tell that he was actually getting past the walls you’d built to keep your heart safe.

Dean tightened his arm around you a little, letting out a slow breath. “‘Cause you’re a lot like a kitten. All cute and adorable, even when you’re hissing and growling at me,” he chuckled, but meant it. 

At first, you weren’t sure if you should take it as a compliment, an insult, or a back-handed compliment, as it could be taken as any of the three. And for a moment, Dean thought perhaps you’d flip out, like you typically did when you took his words in the completely wrong way.

He shifted behind you, mostly so he could be a bit more comfortable without having to shift his hips again. “I meant it as a compliment,” he mumbled, his breath now fanning over the nape of your neck, and he didn’t miss the shiver that went down your spine.

A small sound got caught in your throat. Not quite a whine. Not quite a whimper. And all you could hope was that he hadn’t heard it over the storm. You looked at the window and the darkness beyond. It felt too nice being in his arms. Being held like you mattered to him. Like this was something he pictured doing far too often, but had never been able to before. You couldn’t share him, and you knew it. Your heart wouldn’t survive casual encounters, while he also enjoyed other women when he needed a change of pace, or someone caught his eye.

“I should go sleep on the couch,” you mumbled, moving to pull away, but his arm tightened further around you. 

“Don’t,” he whispered, and with the cotton in your ears, you barely heard him. “Please…”

Your body slumped in defeat. “Dean,” you sighed, not entirely sure how to word things without being blunt and feeling like an ass in the process. “I can’t do this.”

It was his turn to feel defeated, his grip tightening for a moment before loosening. “And I don’t want to watch you pick up guys that don’t deserve you,” he stated, voice low and deep, like the thought alone angered him, which it was. “Don’t make me watch that. Please.”

You took a slow, deep breath. He couldn’t mean what it sounds like. “And what about you? Would you make me watch you take home other women?” you asked, and it came out more like a challenge than a genuine question.

A knowing smirk quirked his lips. The cocky, triumphant one you typically hated. He slowly turned your body so you were lying on your back as he propped himself up on his other arm. “If you let me in, I’d never pick up another woman as long as you're mine,” he murmured, his hand resting against your hip, thumb brushing slow circles just above the hem of your sweats.

When another flash of lightning lit up the outside world, your eyes met his, and your lungs seemed to forget how to breath. There was hunger there, sure. But there was something else. Something you’d only caught glimpses of over the last at least two years. Something softer. Something… deeper.

As the darkness returned, you held his gaze, even in the dark. “Then ask me,” you whispered, almost afraid he might.

Dean let out a shaky breath. You really weren’t making this easy on him. But if you had, you wouldn’t have been you. “Be mine,” he asked in a whisper, and you could hear the worry hidden. The worry you’d reject him in his most vulnerable moment.

You didn’t hesitate, knowing how Dean normally was, and just how hard this was for him. “I’ve always been yours,” you murmured, reaching up and cupping his cheek, letting out emotions you’d kept caged for nearly the last two years. 

His eyes fluttered shut as he leaned into your palm. “Coulda fooled me,” he mumbled, a small chuckle vibrating in his chest.

“Well, why do you think I got so upset when you picked on me?” you smiled, teasing him just a little, even with the softness in your voice.

Just as his brow wrinkled, his eyes shot open. “Huh?” 

You chuckled, kind of enjoying him puzzled. You’d always found it rather cute. “I really thought you didn’t like me, and that was why you were always picking on me. It kinda hurt. I just never let you see that part,” you admitted softly, figuring if he could be vulnerable with you, you could do the same with him.

Guilt churned and twisted in his gut instantly, his thumb stilling against your skin. Fuck… “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, “How can I make it up to you?”

The butterflies danced in your stomach as you bit your lower lip, almost too nervous to ask. “Kiss me, like I’m someone important to you,” you whispered.

Dean groaned, but didn’t hesitate, leaning down and pressing his lips to yours. Neither of your imaginations compared to the real thing. The softness alone was enough to have his grip tighten on your hip. The way his lips moved against yours, slow, testing, a little cautious, but no less intimate, had your fingers curling into his shirt as you inhaled deeply through your nose.

You half turned more toward him, his hand sliding under your shirt to rest on the middle of your back, fingers splayed and holding you close. Every muscle in his body tensed at how you welcomed him into your space. When he finally pulled back, forehead coming down to lean against yours, his breathing was heavy, heart hammering. “I’m not gonna rush this,” he breathed out, forcing his other head to behave itself.

The chuckle that came out had him confused. 

“Cute, Winchester.” 

“What?” he defended. “I said I wouldn’t try nothin’.”

This time, you giggled, nuzzling your nose against the side of his. “I finally say yes, and now you want to wait,” you murmured, that flirty, velvety purr in your voice that had never been directed at him before.

A wicked smirk crossed his lips. “And you’ll wait cause tonight, I just wanna hold my girl. Come mornin’, all bets are off.”

“Tease,” you mumbled, pouting up at him, even in the darkness.

He stole another tender kiss before lying on his back and pulling you against him. “Promise I won’t leave ya hangin’,” he chuckled, smiling like an idiot in love. “Get some sleep, Kitten.” The way he said it sent electricity through your every nerve. Not fair. “Gonna hold you to that,” you mumbled, but at the same time, loved that he chose to hold you instead of ravaging you tonight. 

Sure, it might have distracted you from the storm if he had, but this right now? This felt far more meaningful than anything you’d fantasized about with him. He held you like you were precious. Like, he really knew you were his, even with how badly the two of you jibed each other for the last three years. 

The storm raged on, pelting the cabin like it had personally offended it. Thunder roaring with rage that the little thing built of wood and metal wouldn’t bend or break. Lighting brightened the sky just to show it still stood.

But inside? 

Dean held you close against him while you purred. The vibrations moving from your chest and into his side, soothing something he hadn’t even realized had been tense and waiting. Your body was relaxed in a way you only ever got after utter exhaustion, but it was deeper than even that. The loneliness that always plagued your heart was gone. Replaced with something warmer. Softer. Something so tender you never wanted to let it go.

Would your life with Dean be all sunshine and rainbows? Of course not. The two of you hunted monsters, and heaven always tossed things at you that made life seem impossible to get through. But what would change was that neither of you would be walking around with that ache clenching your hearts anymore. And the bonus, you’d both get to torture Sam.

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