#yasoldmen

avenger!bucky x avenger!reader

synopsis: you and bucky are off to a bodega late at night for some snacks [and procrastinating some paperwork]. bucky is really only going to keep an eye out on you, while you're desperate to show him some modern day candy. bucky is fantastic at keeping people at arms length when it comes to you.

word count: 3.2k

The quiet hum of late-night New York buzzed softly as you and Bucky walked down the street. The compound wasn’t far from the city centre, but even so, the streets felt different at this time of night. Still alive, but darker with an edge that lingered when the sun set. The sidewalks were scattered with people staggering in and out of bars or huddling in alleyways. 

You were taking a break from paperwork, excited to introduce Bucky to the joys of modern candy and chocolate. Bucky walked beside you, hands stuffed in pockets, his head slightly dipped. The look in his eyes was enough to make anyone walking near the two of you think twice about approaching. 

You continued walking to the nearest 24-hour bodega down the block. It wasn’t a fancy place by any means, but it had everything that you needed to get through the mounds of paper back at the compound. Bucky stayed close to you, your shoulders occasionally bumping. 

In truth, Bucky didn’t care much about the candy. Sure, it was interesting to see how everything had changed since the ‘40s, but it wasn’t why he agreed to tag along. What you didn’t know was that he had come along for one reason: to watch your six. 

It was late. The streets were littered with all kinds of people that made Bucky’s instincts flare. He didn’t like the idea of you walking alone at this hour. He knew you could handle yourself, he knew you were more than capable enough, but he also knew the dangers lurking in the shadows.

Hell, he was one of the dangers a decade ago. 

Bucky didn’t trust anyone out here. And he wasn’t about to let anything happen to you. 

As you neared the bodega, a man stumbled from the alley, eyes locking onto you with a strange grin. Bucky noticed instantly, stepping in front of you as the man slurred, “Hey, baby. Got any change?”

Bucky’s expression hardened instantly. His broad frame blocked the man’s path. He didn’t say anything; he didn’t need to. He just looked at the old man, his gaze cold and unblinking, which sent the man retreating quickly.

“Okay, let’s get your candy.” Bucky said as nonchalant as ever, taking your hand as he continued walking. 

While Bucky essentially led you down the street towards the bodega, you were still stuck on what the hell had just happened. You had been friends for a few months since he had joined the Avengers since recovering in Wakanda, and you hadn’t really seen this side of him. 

Granted, you hadn’t gone on a walk at 2AM with him before, but still.

“Bucky…” you start, side-eyeing him, the heat from his hand warming yours up. “What was that?”

“What was what?” he asked casually, avoiding eye contact as he opened the bodega door for you, letting you in first. You entered with him in tow, the bright lights waking you up.

“That.” you said, navigating the cramped aisles. “Outside. With the man.” After stopping in front of the candy selection, you turn to look at him. “You took my hand.” 

“Oh, that?” Bucky asked simply, as if this was another day for him. “He was weird. I didn’t like him. What’s this?” He pointed at a flat, colourful box: Sour Patch Kids. Clearly trying to distract you.

Was it working?

Sort of.

“You didn’t have to do that.” You ignored his attempt at changing the subject, crossing your arms, already knowing that this was a part of his ‘40s charm shining through. “I can handle myself. This has been proven. Countless times, Barnes.”

His gaze flits from the candy selection to you, tilting his head. He sighs quietly, knowing that you’re right; you’ve proved yourself over and over again by being a part of the Avengers, by facing threats more deadly than a drunk man on the side of a street. 

“I know. I’m not doubting that. I’d never doubt that, you know that.” He scrubs a hand over his face, thinking through his next set of words, hoping that it doesn’t rub you the wrong way. “I wanted to.”

When you don't respond, he continues. “I care about you. And I just want you to be able to walk down the street at night without being harassed. So I just…” he shrugged, exhaling sharply. “I dealt with it so you didn’t have to. I wanted to. I’m sorry for overstepping, but I won’t apologise for wanting to put myself in between you and that man. I won’t.” 

For a man of few words and little emotion, he sure said a lot with meaning. 

You stare at him, and he stares at you. You never quite know what to respond to Bucky whenever he talks about his emotions, his wants, his needs. It’s rare he verbalises them. It’ll always leave you speechless.

He eventually tears his gaze away from you, looking back at the candy selection. “You never answered my question.”

“Hm?”

“What’s this?” He pointed again to the Sour Patch Kids.

You look at where he’s pointing, and sigh. Of course. Rarely ever talks about his emotions, drops a bomb, then changes the conversation immediately. “Sour Patch Kids,” you say, grabbing it off the shelf, handing them to him. “They’re gummy bears. Sour then sweet.” You glance at him, giving him a thin smile. “Kind of like you.”

“Oh, ha, ha.” He fake-laughs, turning the box over in his hands. “Nice one. So unique. Never heard that one before.”

You roll your eyes, shoving your hands into your pockets as you scan the selection. “So what candy did you guys have back then? Before…?” You trail off, leaving your question unfinished. 

He looks up from the box he’s analysing and scans the selection, naming the candies he had before he became a prisoner of war. “Tootsie Rolls. Milk Duds. Snickers. Hershey’s.” He lets out a quiet, almost nostalgic chuckle as he takes in the variety of candy. “Christ. Changed a lot since I’ve been gone.”

The corner of your lips turn down slightly as you feel the mood shift — this was supposed to be a fun outing to take both of your minds off paperwork. But when Bucky’s trauma is so deeply ingrained into everything, he’ll never get away from it. Not really.

Well, time to distract him from too much trauma-induced nostalgia. 

“So what catches your eye?” you ask, turning to face him. “Surely something else must be calling out to you. I can’t let you leave here with just that.” You motion towards the box he’s holding. 

He knows what you’re doing, and he’s thankful for it. He smirks slightly, slowly turning back to the selection. “Well, if I must.” He fake sighs. He grabs a packet of Twizzlers, a small smile on his face. “Steve never shuts up about these. Might as well give them a try.” 

His movement slows as he catches sight of something, eyebrows knitting together as he looks at it, trying to make sense of it. “What… is that?” he eventually asks, confusion evident on his face.

You follow his line of sight, eyes falling on Cow Tales. Hm. You pick it up, turning the packet over in your hands, reading the small printed words. “I think they’re caramel ropes. Definitely old-people stuff.” You all but shove it into his chest, his hands fumbling to grab it. “Perfect for you, Mr. One Hundred Years Old.”

He looks at you in disbelief, a small smile on his lips. “These age jokes are never going to stop, huh?”

You smile as you turn away, searching for other items that would be beneficial for Bucky to try. “Never.”

You and Bucky both grab several things from the shelves, you acquiring what you came here for, with Bucky selecting various new candy based on what he’s seen the Avengers eating in the past. 

Mooching down the other aisles in relative silence, you speak up, breaking the tranquil peace that had been built between you two. “You held my hand.” You keep your eyes fixed on the shelf of beer in front of you.

“What?” Bucky’s heart all but stops. He’d been praying that you wouldn’t bring that up. It was more of a reaction on instinct.

One that felt right to him. Really right. 

“You held my hand.” You repeated, not changing your intonation.

There’s a beat of silence. Hah, got’em. 

“Did you not like it?” he asks, grabbing a six-pack of Tiger beer. 

Okay, did not expect that response.

You look at him through your peripheral vision, slowly walking down the aisle as if you’re pondering buying some. “I just didn’t expect it. Y’know. After you stole my thunder and scared off that guy.”

Bucky bites back a laugh. “You were walking too slow, sweetheart,” he brushes it off as if it meant nothing to him. “Just wanted to get out of the street.”

He walks past you, further down the aisle. You watch him go, eyes fixed on his back, his words imprinted in your mind.

Sweetheart? Is there something going on here? 

Surely not.

You slowly follow him, trailing behind him. You find yourself, once again, speechless. How is he the only one to have this ability on you? It’s not like you’ve never had a thing for guys, but it’s different when it comes to Bucky. The idea of being with him is so far removed from your mind due to how traumatised he is.

And, y’know, the thing with him being over one hundred years old. But that part doesn’t bother you too much. 

“Got everything?” I ask, making him stop in his tracks.

He turns around, his eyes moving from you, down at his arm cradling the sheer amount of snacks against his chest, then back to you. “Take a guess.” 

You roll your eyes. “At least you’ll be too busy eating to bitch about the paperwork tonight. Thank God. Can’t hear one more goddamn remark about incident reports.”

“Don’t act like you don’t enjoy my suffering.” Bucky mutters as you both make your way up to the counter. You put your items down with the cashier scanning everything and packing them into a plastic bag. 

When the cashier rings you both up, your hand slides into your pocket to grab your card, but Bucky mutters a single ‘no’ and beats you to it. He hands the cashier a couple of twenties. You try to protest, but the look on his face silences you. He shrugs. “My treat.”

He picks up the bags, turning to the door. He lets you go first before following. As you both step onto the street, you’re hit with the slight wind of New York. It feels fresh almost, fresher than the bodega air. 

“Technically, that was my treat.” You begin walking down the street, Bucky following in tow. “I dragged you here.” 

He shakes his head, dismissing your statement. “It’s fine. I wanted to.” He gently bumps his shoulder against yours.

You glance at him, eyebrows raised slightly. “It seems like you’re wanting to do a lot lately.”

Bucky sighs, pursing his lips. “Can I not just…” he trails off, not finishing his sentence. 

“Not just what?” You encourage. 

He thinks for a moment. “Nothing,” he eventually says. “Just let me. Please.”

Well, when he says it like that.

You exhale quietly, relenting. It’s too early in… whatever this is, to be asking questions. It probably won’t ever be the time to address any topics that could lead to you two being more than friends. 

But you can’t help but have your mind wander slightly. 

As you guys make your way back to the compound, the streets are still littered with people on nights out. The silence between you two was comfortable as Bucky carried all of the snacks and beer. 

Moments later, you both approach the compound and make your way in. Bucky follows you as you enter the common area, cluttered with paper and files. He sets the beer on the floor next to the bag of candy, sitting down on the floor in front of the couch. 

He pours the contents of the bag onto the floor before looking up at you, smiling slightly. “Lend a hand?”

You can’t help but chuckle and sit next to him, rummaging through the pile. He grabs a beer from the six-pack, opens it, and hands it to you, before grabbing himself one. “What are we starting with?” he asks, letting you take the lead.

“Oh, definitely these. Your body will love Red 40.” You grab a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos and open it, offering it to him. He grabs one from the packet and inspects it. “Why is it glowing?” he mutters, before reluctantly putting it in his mouth. “I hate it.” He muffles, despite reaching for another. 

You roll your eyes as you take a few chips of your own, munching as you see Bucky reflexively grabbing some more. The addiction hits immediately. 

You put down the packet before opening several other snacks that’s completely foreign to him. He comments offhandedly about the chemicals or the sugar content, but he never rejects anything. In fact, he continues to eat everything after trying it.

You’ve broken him. Moulded him into a typical, 21st century American. And he fucking loves it. 

Eventually, you found yourself gravitating to the stack of paperwork on the table near you. You pick up your pen and scan the document as Bucky munches audibly next to you. 

He groans quietly. “Ugh. Do we have to?”

“It’s our job,” you remind him. “Plus, Steve’s on our ass about it. We can’t just fight and kill and not report it back to the brass.” 

No response. 

You turn to look at him as he takes a sip from his beer, not breaking eye contact. You pick up a pen and chuck it at his chest. “Work.”

He removes the bottle from his lips as he lets out a quiet scoff. “You know, I don’t get you.” He picks up the pen and twirls it around between his metal fingers. “You always complain about the paperwork after a mission, but you’re the first to complete it.”

You roll your eyes. “I dislike my to-do list growing with things I’d rather not put off,” you respond, before simply adding, “I also dislike being chased up on things to do. It’s irritating.” You give him a pointed look. “And if you don’t do at least half of your overdue forms tonight, Steve’s gonna be on my ass about it. So please. Put pen to paper.” You look back down at the forms, mumbling under your breath, “And that’s why I took you to the bodega. To give you food to shut you up and work.”

Bucky watches you, a small smile on his face. He knew your comment was in jest, and he took it in stride. God, he loves your practicality. 

“Alright, sweetheart.” he mutters, grabbing a stack of papers and getting to work.

For about forty five minutes, you two successfully worked in silence. Bucky completed four mission reports, you three. Yeah… you guys were behind, despite your bold declaration of doing paperwork immediately after a mission. Back-to-back missions do that to you. 

After the whole HYDRA outbreak in SHIELD, Steve insisted on doing important, classified 'need-to-know' reports physically rather than digital… which he preferred, anyway. He did it for himself, you tell yourself. His old age is showing.

Bucky shuffles closer to you. “Hey, can I see what you put for—” He cuts himself off as his metal arm rests against yours and he leans across you, grabbing one of your completed files. He moves a half-inch away, as if that did anything, and skims your work. “Thanks.” He jots something down, not bothering to put any more space between you two. 

Knowing he likely needed to just cross-reference something during a joint mission, you shrug and continue your work. But you can’t help but think about the closeness, how that wasn’t accidental. The musky smell from his cologne, the slight chill sent through your body when his metal skin touched your soft one. 

After finishing another report, your eyes begin to droop. Sugar crash has begun to hit, as well as pure boredom doing these stupid reports. You shouldn’t have left them to pile up, you tell yourself. You’ve learnt your lesson. 

Normally you can fight fatigue like this, but after doing four missions in one week and dealing with a sugar crash, there’s no way you’re powering through. Your handwriting becomes messier as your grip on the pen loosens. Eventually, you drop the pen as your head slumps gently onto Bucky’s shoulder.

He freezes like he had just stepped onto a minefield. 

There is no way you just—

While remaining deathly still, his eyes dart to the side to check. Yeah. Yeah, you did.

He slowly puts down his pen, relaxing his shoulder slightly so you’re a bit more comfortable. He glances at the clock, with it reading 3:37AM. Yeah, fair enough. Standard time for you to knock out. 

With all that Bucky’s been through, it would be understandable and expected for him to never feel safe again. To never feel at peace.

But when he’s with you, all essence of trauma disappears. He relaxes in ways he never thought he could, in ways he has mourned from his previous life before the war. He feels like he’s coming up from underwater, and for the first time in his life, he can breathe. 

He doesn’t know what about you does it for him. It could be the fact that you’re one of the most understanding people he’s ever come across. Not once shown fear at who he was or judgement at what he’s done. Or it could be that you’re more than capable and excelling in your field, easily able to watch his six like he’s watching yours. 

With the weight of your head on his shoulder, it anchors him to the present. Bucky feels his eyes also drooping, and for the first time since ever knowing what HYDRA is, he feels safe enough to sleep immediately. 

He dozes off, his head resting on top of yours. His breathing evens out, his hands relaxing from the constantly clenched fists it finds themselves in. 

What feels like only minutes later, Bucky feels a movement in the doorway, thanks to the super soldier serum. He tenses and his eyes snap open. His head instantly swivels to the figure in the doorway, ready to stand in between them and you, still asleep on his shoulder. 

Bucky relaxes slightly, seeing the figure belonging to Steve, who had been watching this intimate scene before the floorboard creaked slightly. He approaches, standing just off the side to Bucky, raising an eyebrow. 

“Hey, Buck,” he says quietly. “Enjoyin’ yourself there?”

Bucky rolls his eyes, checking that you’re still asleep. “Shut it.” 

Steve chuckles quietly as he shakes his head. “You like ‘em, don’t you?” he asks, despite already knowing the answer. 

He pauses for a moment, torn between lying to himself to avoid facing the truth and wanting to admit something about himself that can’t be denied anymore. He slowly looks up at Steve and shrugs with his free shoulder. “Can you blame me?”

dividers: @strangergraphics <3

hunter!user x bunker!dean

synopsis: dean's back from a solo hunt that went somewhat badly, making him realise something. immediately seeks your touch when he's back, then is distant for a while, in his usual emotionally-constipated way. set sometime after s8 when they move into the bunker.

word count: 2.6k

The dim light of the bunker cast long shadows across the war room, where an array of maps and notes were sprawled across the table. The silence felt loud, especially with it being only you in the bunker. Sam and Dean were both on solo hunts; Sam in Arizona, and Dean in New Orleans. 

You stood beside the table, flipping through a book, tension creeping into your shoulders. The recent hunts have been undeniably brutal. Every loss weighed heavily on you, Sam, and Dean. 

Just as you were about to sit down and take a moment to breathe, the heavy door swung open, creaking against the concrete walls. The moment Dean stepped inside, trudging down the stairs, an air of exhaustion surrounded him, his face etched with the strain of a particularly tough hunt. He looked worn, weary. 

Without a word, Dean’s gaze locked onto you. 

In an instant, all the burdens he carried seemed to melt away, replaced by a familiar warmth that he only feels with you. It’s a shame you’re both just friends, he thinks, a tinge of sadness in his chest. 

Dean strode across the room, dropped his duffel bag, and before you could register what was happening, he enveloped you in a tight embrace, seamlessly lifting you off your feet. “Hey,” he murmured against your hair, his voice low and slightly raspy. “Missed you.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the only thing that comes out is a muffled “Mrphehhe fnacack?” into his chest. 

He chuckles quietly, his shoulders shaking. He pulls away, looking down at you with a twinkle in his eyes. “What was that?” he asks, his voice quiet to accommodate the intimate atmosphere that had been created. 

“You’re back,” you repeat, raising an eyebrow. Your hand lingers on his side, before you catch yourself and let it drop beside you, slightly awkward. “We spoke yesterday. You said you wouldn’t be back for a few days.” 

Dean shrugs as he pulls away from you, taking a few steps to the side to peer at what you had been working on before he interrupted. “Yeah, well. You mentioned that the bunker was quiet.”

You stare at him, expecting to develop on that point a bit. 

He does not. 

“And?” you prod him verbally, needing more than that. “Doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

He picks up one of the papers, flicking through it as if he cares about what you were researching. He doesn’t. He drops the flimsy material back onto the table with no finesse. “Figured I’d come back. Make the bunker less…” he trails off, trying to find the right term. “Quiet. I dunno.”

You silently cross your arms, watching him, watching his demeanour. The bags under his eyes; he’s clearly tired. The dried blood on his face and his clothes indicate that there was a bloodbath. 

For as long as you’ve known him, he almost never tells the truth about his feelings. He rarely discusses his emotions, only when he’s at his absolute breaking point. He shrugs his leather jacket off, draping it over the back of a nearby chair. 

You know he won’t say shit about his feelings, unless you initiate that conversation. 

“So,” you start, trudging to the nearby kitchenette and grabbing two beers, chucking him one. “How was the hunt? Let me guess. Vampires.” 

Dean cracks the beer bottle open and sits on the edge of the table, watching you as he takes a swig. “How’d you know? Could’ve been a Rugaru.”

You similarly open your bottle and take a sip, leaning against the adjoining doorway. “Wouldn’t be covered in that much blood had it been a Rugaru.” 

He rolls his eyes. “Alright, smartass.” He sighs, rolling his neck to click it. “Yeah, it was… definitely something.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Expand.” 

Dean ignores the way his stomach twists when he hears the command. “Vamps came at me in all directions. It was a close call a few times.”

You look at him in disbelief. This is typical Dean: taking on the weight of the world, nearly dying, not asking for help, and brushing it off. You hate him sometimes. “Are you joking?” you ask, dumbfounded. Dean squeezes his eyes shut, ready to take it. “Your phone works, does it not? You have opposable thumbs, don't you? You should’ve called me! I’d have made my way there.” 

“I know,” Dean grits out. “I know. Don’t give me grief. I didn’t want to disturb you and… whatever it is you were doing here.” He motions behind him lacklusterly. “Plus, I thought I could handle it until the four vamps came at me. Can you teleport? Didn’t think so.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s fine. I made it out. Just… It's fine.”

The silence that hangs between you two is almost painful, safe to say. The concern and anger bubbling inside of you is almost palpable, while Dean is exuding exhaustion and vulnerability. If you push him more, he’ll shut down. 

You take a swig of your beer, gritting your teeth at the yeasty taste and biting back harsh words you’re dying to spit out. Dean tilts his head down, looking up through his lashes — not in a way that’s flirtatious, but in a defensive way, trying to physically shield himself from any other verbal attacks that may come his way. 

You sigh harshly, turning away. Taking a moment to yourself, to calm yourself down. When you’re Sam and Dean’s hunting partner, and somehow survived the Winchester curse [for now], a lot of anger and concern is involved. The boys are martyrs, especially for each other. 

This is not your first rodeo. You just need a minute.

You eventually turn back to face Dean, your face somewhat calm. “I’m just glad you’re okay,” you say evenly. “Next time, call me. Or no more solo hunts for you.”

Dean, knowing not to provoke you any more, nods. “Yes, sir.” 

You walk back to the table, standing beside where he’s sitting on the edge. You nudge him with your shoulder, trying to extend an olive branch. “Hungry?” you ask, eyes scanning on the papers as you put them all together neatly. 

To your surprise, Dean shakes his head. “Nah,” he says, his voice sitting low in his voice box. “Was thinking of just… showering and crashing.” 

You turn to look at him, surprise evident on your face. “You sure? I was thinking on grabbing a burger from that diner down the road—”

He cuts you off with another firm shake of his head, his lips downturned slightly. “Nah,” he repeats. “No appetite.” 

You blinked. Once, twice, three times. Unsure if you’re dreaming. 

Dean never turns down a burger. Goddamn. That hunt must’ve fucked with him in a way that is unimaginable to a regular person’s mind.

“D—” you start, but he’s already heading down the hallway, a beer bottle hanging nimbly between his thumb, forefinger, and middle finger. You watch him go, jaw unhinged slightly, shock running through your veins. 

For about forty minutes after that, you sit on the chair, staring at the stack of papers you had tidied up. Your own beer bottle rests in your lap, nearly finished, as several things run through your mind: what could’ve happened on that hunt that made Dean not want a burger, if this is a long-term thing, and if he would speak to you about it. 

You decide to bite the bullet. 

You leave the bottle on the table, stand up, and make your way down the hallway to Dean’s room. You barely knock — once, just to signal you’re about to open the door, not even waiting for him to allow you to come in.

You lean against the doorframe, watching Dean’s form as he lies on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Not doing anything special. 

Just a bit … sad, really. Like a depressed puppy.

“Are you sure you don’t want to eat anything?” You ask, crossing your arms. “I can even grab you some pie.” You pause. “If you ask nicely.”

Dean doesn’t bother to look at you, his gaze transfixed on the ceiling. He grunts. “Nah.” 

You exhale sharply through your nose. There’s no point trying to prod or push him now. He’d only shut down. And you aren’t a therapist. You’re not paid for this. 

“Okay,” You relent, turning away, hand on the doorknob, about to shut the door after leaving. There’s no point in irritating Dean. It’s like kicking a dog when it’s down. “You know where I am if you need anything.” 

As you’re about to shut the door and walk away, Dean quietly protests. “Wait.”

You stop in your tracks. Your ears strain into Dean’s room, wondering if that was a trick of your mind or he genuinely told you to wait. “What?” You ask. “Did you say something?” 

Dean props himself up on one elbow, watching as you peek into the room. “I said wait,” he sighs, like he’s being forced to speak. “Just… wait.” 

You re-open the door, waiting patiently. If he wants something, he has to say it. God gave him a voicebox for a reason. 

He exhales sharply as he lies back down, staring at the ceiling again. “D’ya mind… staying?” he eventually mustered up, voice quiet, vulnerable. “For a bit?” 

You raise your eyebrows. You don’t respond, but you silently enter his room, shutting the door behind you. You sit on the edge of his bed, gaze turned over your shoulder to where Dean is avoiding eye contact. 

He eventually turns his head to look at you. It feels like time has stopped, the moment his eyes, struggling to hide the fact that something happened on the hunt, met yours. 

You hate it when a man makes you feel like this. 

But, somehow, it’s okay when it’s Dean.

He reaches out, gently grabbing your forearm, pulling you down so you’re lying in a similar position to him. 

You stare up at the ceiling, one hand on your stomach, the other lying beside you, next to Dean’s. You turn your head, studying his side profile, silent as you do so. Your mind wanders as you take in how absurd this situation is — Dean encouraging you to lie next to him in silence. 

With him, it’s all go, go, go. There’s no time to feel feelings, or have ‘chick flick moments,’ as he calls it. It’s all hunts and food and patching each other up. There are some bouts of anger and screaming matches, but nothing quite like this. No silence in vulnerability. 

“Dean?” you start quietly, deciding to break the silence. 

“Mmhm?” he grunts, not turning his head to look at you. His eyes remain fixed on the ceiling. 

You prop yourself up on your elbow, chin in palm, eyes never leaving his face. In his peripheral vision, he can clearly see the concern on your face. It makes his stomach churn. 

“Please,” you say quietly. “Talk to me. What the hell happened out there?” 

He had never heard you plead before. Not like this. Not with pure concern in your voice. 

On bodily instinct, heat pricks at his eyes, tears beginning to pool. He shakes his head, scrubbing a hand over his face, and sighing shakily. 

He doesn’t have long before he comes undone, with one concerned statement from you. 

“I—” his voice breaks, shaking his head again. Your free hand flies to his shoulder, trying to ground him. “I really thought that was it for me, y’know?” 

You glance around, confusion at your core. Dean’s in tears over him nearly dying, when he’s been borderline suicidal for the last odd thirty-something years of his life? 

“But you’ve been all gung-ho about dying with a gun in your hand,” you say evenly, prying. “Going out in a blaze of glory. Surely a nest of vamps fits that description, no?” 

“I know. I know.” he croaks, refusing to look at you still. “But it was different. That’s not how I wanted to—” he cuts himself off with another firm shake of his head.

It seems like he’s mulling something over, deciding on whether to say something or not. And before you can speak, he turns on his side, propping himself up on his elbow to face you, in a similar style. 

With his free hand, he hastily wipes away a stray tear. His eyes meet yours for the first time in what feels like forever. “I didn’t want to die without telling you how I feel.” 

Your heart stops. Drops to your stomach. Hell, drops out of your ass.

This is not what you think it is… right?

You raise your eyebrows, keeping a cool exterior so Dean doesn’t see your mind beginning to scramble and jump to conclusions. “How you feel?” you all but croak. “Wh—”

He cuts you off. If he doesn’t tell you now, he doesn’t think he ever will.

“God,” he groans, saying your name in a way that makes your heart clench in anticipation. “I think I’m in love with you!” 

Your eyebrows fly to your hairline. It was what you were expecting, but hearing the ‘L’ word fall from his lips will never not surprise you. You decide to push your luck a little. “You think?”

He all but glares at you. “Watch it.” 

You tilt your head, a small smile playing on your lips. His eyes soften as he sighs, realising he needs to continue talking. 

“You’re the best person I know. You’re so fucking amazing. You can leave whenever you want, but you don’t. You deal with my shit like it’s yours. It’s so hard not to fall in love with you. I’ve been trying not to for years, but I just can’t help but fall harder. You make me see the great in the world. You somehow make me less destructive. You make me want out of this life. I’m dreaming of a stupid white picket fence again. I thought I gave that dream up, I thought it was impossible for me, but whenever I look at you, it’s all I see.” Words fell from his mouth, unable to stop. However, he does grimace a little when he adds, “And I think… you might be a better hunter than me.” 

You’re silent. Speechless. You’re living an event you never thought would happen: Dean Winchester venting about his feelings.

Dean’s eyes narrow, suddenly feeling anxious at your lack of response to his bold declaration. 

“Okay, the silence?” he motions between you, shaking his head. “No. Can you say something? I feel like—” 

You decide against words. Your voice can’t handle it right now. 

Actions speak louder than words, anyway.

You lean forward, cutting Dean off as you press your lips to his. His lips still against yours for a brief moment before he responds, kissing you back in a gentleness you didn’t know existed within him. As he relaxes into the contact, his hand finds your jaw, his fingers tracing the line of it. 

You pull away, a smile on your face. You kept the kiss short and sweet, hoping it conveys your point. 

He looks down at you with awe in his eyes, like you hung the moon. “So you—?” Dean starts, letting himself feel hope for the first time in his life. 

You nod, eyes crinkling. “Yeah.” You pause, before adding, “But no more solo hunts for you.” 

Dean exhales a quiet laugh, pressing a kiss to your forehead, thanking whatever God is up there for you not laughing in his face just now. “Yeah, okay. That’s fair.”

dividers: @strangergraphics <3

heyyy, im h! i finally decided to actively start using tumblr bc im bored, i wanted to write stuff, and why not. idk i just had an itch and decided to scratch it.

im a philo and polsci undergrad in my final year! i am a nerd in the following topics: business ethics, ethics and morality, utilitarianism/kantianism, security and globalisation, civil wars, and politics regarding businesses and tncs. i am also learning to speak russian and german!

current general favs:

movies: surprisingly, not a massive movie fan. i do love marvel tho. x2. catws. cacw. thunderbolts. im2. black widow. age of ultron. the gotg trilogy. the knives out trilogy. hamilton [yet to watch live...]

tv shows: hoo boy buckle up. succession. the rookie. supernatural. tfatws. criminal minds. ginny and georgia. tsitp. all her fault. 2 broke girls. ted lasso. got. suits. b99. friends. tbbt. young sheldon. the boys. haikyuu. gen v. greys anatomy. euphoria. severance. twd. superstore. veep. peacemaker. okay ill stop now but you get the gist.

music: fall out boy. omfg. if you cant tell. this is not a safe space for post-hiatus hate. mcr. patd. radio company. hamilton. cate tomlinson. pitbull. r5. ac/dc. bon jovi. wig wam. def lepperd.

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watch this space bc im currently writing some stufffffff. :p