#weighted

Lately, it was like you had been the one dragging everyone down. No one had said anything, but they didn’t have to, you felt it. Every missed shot, every wrong lead, every blood-soaked bandage. For weeks you had been circling around the thought that you were losing your edge. There was an extra weight on your chest any time you snuck through the darkness. And when you told yourself it was human to make a mistake, the next moment there was some monster calling you pathetic. Plus, hunters couldn’t make mistakes, that was what got someone killed. It all swirled through your head at night as you mentally chided yourself that you needed to get some sleep. Sam and Dean knew about your anxiety. Hell, it was how they had met you, a nervous hunter friend of Bobby’s who needed help with a djinn; the type of djinn that fed off fear. And when you’d gotten snatched and drugged, the boys had to venture a rescue mission right into your head. There had been no hiding it from them after that.

“What ‘chu thinkin’ about?” Dean drawled. You inhaled sharply, closing your eyes against the shock of a voice in the silence. You turned to see him propped against the door frame watching you, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“That you’re getting quieter.” You answered honestly, sitting down on the bed facing him. “I didn’t even hear you coming down the hallway.”

“Already starting to go deaf?” Dean grinned cheekily. “I told you that your sawed-off is too old to be in commission.”

 “There is nothing wrong with my weapon, or how loud it is, thank you very much.” You quickly stuck your tongue out at him. “I was just lost in my thoughts.”

“Something specific?”

You paused, holding his gaze for a moment, wondering if you could really let Dean know your private thoughts. Of course Dean had noticed the dark circles under your eyes, the countless times he’d woken up to you already sitting up in bed. He might have known you weren’t sleeping well, but he still hadn’t pinpointed the reason why. Did he even really care what you were thinking about? Or was he just asking to be polite?

“You’re getting that look.” Dean pushed off from the door and entered your room.

“What look?” Your eyes were wide with confusion.

“The one that means you’re thinking too much again.” Dean settled next to you, the blanket playing a soft melody under him. He looked down, running his hand over the material. “What’s this?”

“Weighted blanket. Fresh from the laundromat.” You mimicked his movement, feeling the beads shift beneath your hand. “It’s supposed to help me sleep better.”

“Dr. Kazarian recommend this?”

“Along with a third of the internet. People swear that once they start using it, they can’t go back to a regular blanket.”

Dean hummed in reply as his hand found and covered yours. He looked down at them together, then shifted his head and stared out into the hallway, not saying anything. You smirked. This was a recent addition to your time together, Dean pretending to stare off into space to give you an opening in case you wanted to talk.

“What do you remember from the hunt where we met?” You shifted, turning to face Dean and curling your leg in front of you. “When you had to wake me up from the djinn poison?”

“It wasn’t chaotic,” Dean answered after a few seconds, staying where he was. “When I had to rescue Charlie, her fear was loud and in your face. Yours was…like a whisper in the back of your head that followed you everywhere. I felt like I had to constantly look over my shoulder.” He looked at you then, his eyes wide. “Is that what your anxiety feels like?”

“Sometimes,” you replied. “It usually starts as a thought, and then if I’m not careful it spirals into a hundred. I’m constantly questioning myself.”

“But the medication, it helps?” Dean is running his thumb lazily over the top of your hand.

“It helps with the physical symptoms, and some of the unease. But I still have to wrestle with my mind, I can’t ever turn that off.”

“Causing you to struggle falling asleep.” Dean puts two and two together.

If only it was that simple, you thought. As if your body was crying out, you were seized by a yawn, your jaw popping as it opened.

“Well, I hope this helps. Do you want company tonight? I could, uh…wear you out a bit first.” Dean’s eyes glimmer, glancing appreciatively at your body in a pj-shirt and shorts.

“If you want to stay and cuddle for a bit,” you bite back a laugh, “then you’re welcome to it. But I think exerting myself is gonna just wind me up, and that isn’t helpful.”

Dean takes this with grace, but you see the dejection in the turn of his mouth and chuckle, leaning forward to kiss his cheek. He snaps into action, catching your mouth within his lips. His hand covers your thigh, his fingers finding the edge of your shorts and twisting them.

“There’s plenty of time for that another night, Winchester.” You smile at him as you guide his hand away from you and drop it into his own lap. “This girl needs her sleep.”

“Okay, I hear you.” He places one more kiss on your temple before standing. “Oh, I forgot the reason I came. Sam thinks he found a case; I would prep a bag in case we end up leaving in the morning.”

“Sure thing, I’ll be ready.”

“And let me know how this blanket works out.” He’s already starting to turn towards the door. “Maybe when we get back we can test out the theory.”

“What theory?”

“If you sleep better with a weighted blanket, or after a night of pleasure with Dean.”

You laugh, grabbing for the pillow on your bed and hurling it at his departing frame. Seeing this in his peripheral, he snatches it in his arms and tosses it quickly back at you before exiting. You smile to yourself, thankful for moments like this.

00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

Four days later

You beeline for the door leading out of the garage with determination, desperate for some solace. You hear Sam talking quietly to Dean next to the Impala, a tinge of pain in his voice, and yank at the handle, throwing the door open.

“Y/n?!” Dean’s voice calls.

You know you should help get Sam settled, get the car unpacked, but the last thirty minutes of the ride home have your brain completely spent. You had run out of your “as-needed” prescription that morning, not thinking you would be out on the hunt so long. You probably wouldn’t have been if Sam hadn’t spent overnight at an urgent care.

It was only a mild concussion, and a few staples along his hairline, but the doctors had insisted on monitoring him after he vomited. Dean had tried explaining that he’d barely eaten anything, and mixed with the drugs they were giving him, of course he was going to vomit. But they were already suspicious of the circumstances that had brough Sam in and wouldn’t hear of it. You could see Dean’s frustration, hating having to be in this place and leaving Sam’s care up to someone else. You had tried your best with a couple stitches, but the gash wouldn’t stop bleeding, and you had finally insisted that he be seen by a doctor.

You kicked the door to your room closed behind you. Going straight to your desk, you opened the top drawer and found the medication bottle. Swallowing two of the pills dry, their taste bitter in your throat, you closed up the bottled and threw it back into the desk. That task completed, you looked around, wondering whether you should shower first or simply crawl into bed. Knowing that until the meds kicked in you were going to feel like an elephant was sitting on your chest, you decided to at least go to bed feeling clean of the mess you had left in Boise.

Because truly, you were the one who had fucked it up. When Sam’s research had concluded that this was the spirit of a young child brutally murdered by his father, you’d had a creeping suspicion that something was amiss. It wasn’t until you were alone in the farmhouse that you found out it was two sibling spirits. Dean had burned the first tether hidden in the house, but when he had returned to tell you it was over, the second child had lashed out at all of you for killing his brother. In the melee Sam had gotten thrown into a glass curio cabinet headfirst. You could still hear the thud of him hitting the ground.

Scrubbed clean of the grime of the hunt and the blood from Sam’s wound, you dressed in a tank top and shorts. After a pause, you pulled on your favorite hoodie as well, knowing that it would bring a little extra comfort. Then you flipped all the lights off and climbed into bed, pulling the weighted blanket up over your shoulders. The glass beads settled against you, whispering softly, and the pressure of something on top of you eased some of your discomfort. Even though Sam had been upbeat and joking with Dean, every time you saw the gauze over his forehead, you felt that jolt in your chest.

My fault. All my fault. You royal fuck up.

You tried working through some of your mental practices, telling yourself that you couldn’t control the actions of a pissed off ghost; that Sam was okay and he would live to see another day. When that didn’t work, you tried thinking about something else; what you needed to buy next time you were at the store, what sounded good for breakfast the next day. Even trailing your finger across the sheets in different patterns didn’t help settle your mind.

You could have stopped the whole thing if you had just said something.

 The spiral started then, thinking of all the different ways you could have brought up your concerns. Telling Dean about the hyphenated last name you had seen in one of the pictures, suggesting the chance of another sibling. Recalling to Sam the story about how much of a bastard the father had been to his child when they interviewed the ex-wife. Simply trusting your gut when Dean had asked if everyone was okay with the plan.

A tendril of light spilled into the room, the hinge creaking as the door slowly opened, snapping you out of your thoughts.

“You awake y/n?”

It was your intention to ignore him, not ready to pull Dean into this tornado of thoughts. But you didn’t expect him to open the door wider and peek into the room, the light from the hall catching the reflection of your open eyes as he looked at you. Knowing you were caught, you opted to just continue staring at him. When you didn’t say anything, Dean sighed.

“Can I come in?”

You shrugged nonchalantly. Part of you was desperate to hug Dean, tell him what you were feeling, maybe even distract yourself with some “pleasure”. But you also wanted to hold him at arm’s length, keep him out of this mental struggle and not add to his own burden.

Dean padded across the floor, the door open behind him just a crack so that he could see where he was going. He settled onto this side facing you, arm propped against the pillow. He was maintaining a comfortable distance, trying to be a gentleman, and yet you suddenly wanted him as close to you as possible.

“Sam was worried that you feel guilty.” Dean spoke quietly, his voice low and deep.

“And what do you think?”

“I think he’s probably right, but I think there’s more to it than that.”

Tears prickled in your eyes, and your hope that Dean couldn’t see them quickly faded when his thumb came up to brush one off your cheek. You averted your eyes to the ceiling, even though there was really nothing to look at except the small crack in the plaster. Because you knew that if you looked at Dean you would fall apart. Dean reached out across the bed, settling his hand across the top of your stomach, and a few beads in the blanket shifted. His thumb ministered slow, gentle strokes across the fabric.

“You probably shouldn’t hunt with me anymore,” You finally choked out, your voice barely at a whisper. Dean’s hand stilled for half a second, processing this.

“Why is that?” He questioned.

“I’m not the hunter that I used to be.” You gulped, a sob lodging in your throat. “I’m weaker, or some shit. I’m gonna get you hurt or killed.”

“I seem to recall you saving my hide on a few occasions.” He squeezed his hand reassuringly, bunching the material of the blanket.

“No, you don’t get it!” You hissed. You turned quickly, the blanket slipping off your shoulder as you mirrored Dean’s stance. “I knew something was wrong when we went into that house. Mrs. Coralito made a comment about her husband hating her kids. KIDS. She practically told us there was more than one.”

“But we didn’t know they were both dead and haunting the house together.” His hand stayed over your hip, his eyes calm as they searched yours.

“I should have said something. If I did, we might have figured it out, and then we would have been prepared. And that” you punctuated this by pointing sharply at Dean’s chest, “is why Sam got hurt. Because I fucked up.”

You watched Dean take this in, waiting for the anger to hit his face. You’d seen enough of his wrath when it came to hurting his brother, why would you be an exception? But as the silence stretched out, you realized that it wasn’t coming. His eyes were unfocused, thinking of something else, and you felt that smack to your chest again.

“Tell me I fucked up. I can take it.”

“No, no, this isn’t on you.” Dean finally replied. “I’m just trying to put this the right way. If there had been a witness who saw two boys in that house, and you had failed to tell us? Then yeah, I’d be fuckin’ pissed. But we get surprised by secondary monsters all the time. And even if we did know, how would that have stopped Sam from getting thrown into that cabinet?”

“We could have found its tether and burned it before…”

“No,” Dean’s hand came up swiftly, cupping your face. “You never know. That’s the job. You react and you do the best you can.”

“How do I trust myself?” You cried quietly. Dean closed his eyes against the question, the pain that emanated from your words. God, you shouldn’t be voicing this out loud, not to him. He knew better than anyone what it was like to be eaten alive by guilt.

“You just have to.” He finally whispered, his voice shattered.

Tears trickled down your face, your breath harsh as you tried to find purchase in this storm. Dean was watching you carefully, but you could see his own head starting to fill with thoughts. You pushed the blanket off you and grabbed at Dean’s arm, using the anchor to pull yourself into him. He shifted to bring his arms around you, a hand snaking up through your hair to the back of your head. Immediately you were filled with a calm that no weighted blanket, no medication, could ever bring to you. Because even though you hated bringing him into it, Dean had been there. He knew what these thoughts felt like; maybe they weren’t exactly the same, but he could still relate.

There was so much more you wanted to say, but your brain was thick with all of these thoughts and emotions. You knew that you needed to rest, to let sleep wash it all back to a place where you could process it. Sleep was starting to leaden your eyelashes. Dean was still in his outfit from earlier, and you knew that he hated sleeping in a belt and jeans if he could avoid it.

“Will you stay with me tonight?”  

“I ain’t goin’ anywhere, sweetheart.” Dean’s voice rumbled through his chest.

“Do you want to go change first?”

“You seem to have found a good spot. I can mange for one night.”

“No, go.” You couldn’t bear the thought of making him do that after all you had just put him through. “I, uh, forgot to brush my teeth, I gotta get up anyway.”

Dean chuckled, kissing the top of your head. You untangled yourself and sat up, immediately missing his warmth, but you still shoved him playfully before scooting to the edge of the bed and standing to make your way back to the bathroom. You paused in the doorway to watch him leave.

After brushing your teeth (you had actually forgotten) you crawled back into bed with the light on your bedside table casting a soft glow through the room. The weighted blanket settled over your waist, but it just didn’t have the same level of comfort as what Dean had provided. Maybe it was the warmth, maybe it was the humanness. Or maybe it was simply the amount of weight. By the time Dean reentered your room thirty minutes later, you had come up with the script in your head.

“Can I ask you to try something for me?”

“Uh, sure,” Dean’s face was a mixture of guarded and surprised as he pulled back the sheets.

“Will you be my weighted blanket tonight? At least until I fall asleep.”

Dean laughed nervously, running a hand through his damp hair. You could tell he didn’t really think you meant it. You weren’t small in stature, but you also weren’t nearly the same size as him.

“I’m like twice the size of you,” Dean offered. He finally sank down onto the bed, pulling the covers over him and laying down on his side.

“Dean, you’re not going to crush me. You’ve been on top of me many times.”

“But that’s…” his words died off, a blush creeping up his neck.

“Just try it for me, please. I swear I’ll tell you if its too much.”

After a moment of hesitation, Dean nodded slowly. You grinned at him and muttered a thank you. Casting the room back into darkness, you settled against your pillow. Your eyes adjusted so that you could make out Dean hovering near you, still unsure. You verbally guided him through your idea. It took a minute of maneuvering, but soon you were cocooned under Dean. His head rested right above your breasts, his hair tickling the bottom of your chin. His weight was evenly distributed along you, causing a gentle warmth to grow in your center, but you pushed that away; this wasn’t supposed to be sexual. One leg lay between yours and the other outside of it; his feet were probably hanging off the end of the bed. You could tell he was trying to keep some of the weight still on his forearms and you sighed with frustration.

“Can you breathe okay?”

“I’m fine, Dean.”