The Great Pretender | Dean Winchester x reader
Pairings: Dean Winchester x reader
tags: pinning, denial, use of nickname 'princess', faint descriptions of wounds and blood.
Dean wasnât sure when it startedâthis need to keep an eye on you.
It wasnât like you couldnât handle yourself. Hell, youâd proven more than once that you were more than capable in a fight. You moved with this instinctive grace when things went sideways, your mind sharp and steady even when chaos was all around. You fit into their ragtag group almost too perfectly, slipping between his dry humor and Samâs research-heavy focus with ease.
And yet, there it was, this thing he couldnât quite name.
It wasnât just that he watched out for you in hunts. It wasnât just the way his heart kicked up a little whenever he caught you smiling, or the way heâd catch himself looking for you whenever the group split up, just to make sure you were still within reach.
It was something deeper. Something terrifying.
He didnât have time for that kind of thing, not in this life. None of them did.
But the thought didnât stop him from glancing at you now, as you leaned against the hood of the Impala, talking animatedly with Sam about some lore he barely half-understood. The setting sun cast a warm glow across your face, and for a moment, Dean let himself just watch you, his chest tightening in a way that felt both painful and addictive.
âYouâre staring again,â Castiel said quietly, his voice low enough that only Dean could hear.
Dean jumped, nearly dropping the wrench in his hand as he turned to glare at the angel. âIâm not staring.â
Castiel tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. âYou are.â
Dean grumbled something under his breath, turning his attention back to the Impalaâs engine. âDonât you have some celestial mission to take care of or something?â
âNot at the moment,â Castiel replied, his tone infuriatingly calm. He hesitated for a beat, then added, âYou care about them.â
Dean froze, his grip tightening on the wrench. He didnât look up. âYeah, well, weâre all on the same team, Cas. Of course I care.â
âThatâs not what I mean,â Castiel said simply.
Dean swore under his breath, straightening and wiping his hands on a rag. He could feel the angelâs gaze boring into him, unyielding as ever, and it made his skin crawl. âDrop it,â he muttered, stepping away from the car.
But as much as he tried to ignore it, Castielâs words stuck with him, circling his mind like a damn vulture.
The thing about Castiel was, he had this way of dropping truth bombs with all the subtlety of a hammer. And no matter how much Dean told himself to let it go, the angelâs words clung to him like smoke, impossible to shake.
It was a fact Dean already knew but refused to fully acknowledge. Caring meant opening yourself up to the inevitable loss, and in their line of work, loss was as certain as the sunrise. Heâd been down that road too many times, had the scars to prove it. Letting himself feelâreally feelâwas a risk he couldnât afford to take.
And yet, here he was, watching you out of the corner of his eye as the four of you packed up the Impala to head to the next job.
You were laughing at something Sam said, your shoulders shaking with barely contained mirth, and Dean felt that stupid flutter in his chest again. Damn it. He couldnât even be mad at Sam for getting that laugh out of youâjust grateful someone could.
âDean, you good?â your voice broke through his thoughts, and he realized with a start that you were standing right in front of him, your bag slung over one shoulder and a curious look on your face.
âYeah,â he said quickly, clearing his throat. âWhy wouldnât I be?â
You squinted at him, clearly unconvinced, but you let it slide. âOkay. Just making sure.â
You turned to grab something from the backseat, and Dean found himself caught up in the simple, everyday way you moved, like none of the horrors you faced could touch you here. For just a second, it was easy to imagine a world where none of the monsters were real, where you were all just a group of friends hitting the road with no agenda.
But that wasnât reality.
The drive to the next town passed in a blur. Sam was in the front seat with Dean, discussing the details of the caseâmissing hikers, a few weird reports about flickering lights and distorted voices. It all screamed âsomething supernatural,â but Dean could barely focus on the conversation. His eyes kept flicking to the rearview mirror, where you were sitting in the backseat with Castiel.
You had your nose buried in some book Sam had handed you, completely absorbed, while Castiel sat quietly beside you, staring out the window. Every now and then, your lips moved, mouthing words from the text, and Dean had to force himself to keep his eyes on the road.
When you finally pulled into the motel parking lot, the sun was dipping low, painting the sky in streaks of orange and pink. Everyone shuffled out of the car, stretching and groaning after the long ride.
Dean grabbed the keys for the rooms and tossed one to Sam before motioning for Castiel. âCome on, Cas. Youâre bunking with Sam.â
Castiel raised an eyebrow but didnât argue, heading off with Sam toward the far room.
You paused beside Dean, your hands stuffed into your jacket pockets. âGuess that means weâre sharing,â you said lightly, tilting your head toward the other door.
Deanâs stomach flipped. He forced a grin, hoping it didnât look as strained as it felt. âYeah, guess so.â
The room was small but clean, the faint smell of bleach lingering in the air. You dropped your bag on one of the beds and flopped down with a sigh, staring up at the ceiling.
âLong day,â you murmured, your voice soft.
âTell me about it,â Dean replied, kicking off his boots and sitting on the edge of his bed.
You rolled onto your side, propping your head up on your hand as you looked at him. âYouâve been off today,â you said, your tone casual but laced with concern. âWhatâs up?â
Dean hesitated, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his flannel. He could feel your gaze on him, steady and patient, and it made his chest tighten.
âNothing,â he said finally, forcing a smirk. âJust thinking about the case.â
You didnât buy it. He could tell by the way your eyebrows lifted slightly, the way your lips pressed into a thin line. But you didnât push.
Instead, you reached into your bag and pulled out a deck of cards, holding it up with a small smile. âWanna play? Might take your mind off things.â
Dean blinked, caught off guard by the simple gesture. He wanted to say no, to keep the distance heâd spent so much time building, but the look in your eyes made it impossible.
âYeah,â he said finally, leaning forward to take the cards. âWhy not?â
As the two of you settled into an easy rhythm, shuffling and dealing cards, Dean felt something loosen in his chest. For a little while, the weight he carried didnât feel quite so heavy. And he couldnât help but wonderâmaybe caring wasnât the worst thing after all.
The room was quiet, save for the soft shuffle of the cards and the occasional creak of the bed as one of you shifted. The yellow-tinted motel lamp cast a warm glow over the table between the two beds, the light catching in your eyes as you dealt the first hand.
âWhat are we playing?â Dean asked, leaning back against the headboard. His tone was casual, but you caught the flicker of curiosity beneath it.
âFive-card draw,â you said, shooting him a playful smirk. âUnless youâre scared to lose.â
Dean snorted, shaking his head as he picked up his cards. âScared? Sweetheart, Iâve been hustling pool and cards since I was a kid. You donât stand a chance.â
âOh, weâll see about that,â you teased, rearranging your own hand with a confident air.
For a while, it was just the two of you, trading quips and laughs as you played. You werenât keeping scoreânot reallyâbut it was clear Dean was letting his guard down, bit by bit. His grin came easier, his shoulders relaxed, and for the first time all day, he seemed to forget whatever had been weighing on him.
âYouâre bluffing,â Dean said suddenly, narrowing his eyes at you over the rim of his cards.
You raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. âAm I?â
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he studied you. âYouâve got that look. The one that says youâre trying to pull one over on me.â
You couldnât help but laugh, shaking your head. âDean, youâre terrible at reading people.â
His grin widened. âAm I? Because Iâm about to call you out.â
You placed your cards face-down on the table, leaning back with a challenging smile. âGo ahead, Winchester. Letâs see what youâve got.â
Dean revealed his hand with a dramatic flourishâtwo pairs, nothing spectacular, but enough to win most games. He leaned back, crossing his arms smugly.
âBeat that,â he said.
You flipped your cards over slowly, one at a time, revealing a full house.
Deanâs jaw dropped. âNo freakinâ way.â
You laughed, gathering up the cards as he shook his head in disbelief. âI told you, youâre terrible at reading people.â
âOr youâre just ridiculously lucky,â Dean muttered, though his grin betrayed him.
The room fell into a comfortable silence as you shuffled the deck again, the rhythmic sound filling the space. Dean watched you for a moment, his grin fading into something softer.
âYouâre good at this,â he said suddenly.
You glanced up, tilting your head. âAt cards?â
âNo,â he said quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. âAt... I donât know. Just making things feel normal. Even when theyâre not.â
The admission caught you off guard, and for a moment, you didnât know what to say. Dean wasnât the kind of guy to open up easily, and you knew better than to push him too far.
âGuess someoneâs gotta keep you from brooding all the time,â you said lightly, though your voice was warm.
Dean chuckled, shaking his head. âYeah, well... youâre not half bad at it.â
You smiled, the moment stretching out between you. There was something unspoken in his gaze, something that made your chest tighten and your breath hitch just slightly.
âYour deal,â you said finally, sliding the deck across the table toward him.
Dean took the cards, his fingers brushing against yours for just a second too long. âYeah,â he murmured, his voice quieter now. âMy deal.â
And as the night went on, with the cards between you and the world outside the door forgotten, Dean found himself thinking that maybeâjust maybeâletting you in wasnât such a bad idea after all.
The game continued, though neither of you seemed to care about the score anymore. It was just an excuse to talk, to laugh, to fill the quiet spaces with something other than the heaviness of the hunt. Dean dealt the cards this time, his hands moving with practiced ease, though his focus seemed less on the game and more on you.
âAlright, your turn,â he said, leaning forward slightly, his green eyes sharp and teasing. âYou gonna fold or make this interesting?â
You tapped your chin thoughtfully, your lips curving into a sly smile. âI think Iâll raise.â
Dean raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. âYouâve got guts, Iâll give you that.â
âGotta keep you on your toes,â you shot back, your voice light but laced with challenge.
Dean chuckled, shaking his head as he tossed a couple of chips onto the makeshift pile in the middle of the tableâa collection of buttons, bottle caps, and loose change youâd both scavenged from your bags.
The night stretched on, the game ebbing and flowing until the cards lay forgotten between you. The conversation had shifted, moving into stories from hunts, shared memories, and things you never thought youâd talk about.
âYou ever think about it?â Dean asked suddenly, his voice quieter than it had been all night.
âThink about what?â you asked, leaning back against the headboard of your bed, the cards still in your hand but long since abandoned.
âThis life,â he said, gesturing vaguely. âThe hunting, the running, the never knowing if tomorrowâs gonna be the day we donât make it back.â
You hesitated, the weight of his words settling over you. âSometimes,â you admitted softly. âBut whatâs the alternative? Pretend the monsters arenât out there? Let someone else deal with them?â
Dean nodded, his jaw tightening. âYeah. Thatâs the thing, isnât it? Someoneâs gotta do it.â
âAnd itâs us,â you said simply, though your voice carried a certain sadness.
Dean looked at you then, his gaze steady and intense in a way that made your pulse quicken. âIâm glad itâs us,â he said quietly. âI mean, if it has to be anyone...â
Your chest tightened at his words, at the raw honesty in his voice. âMe too,â you murmured, your gaze meeting his.
For a moment, the room felt smaller, the space between you charged with something unspoken. Dean looked like he wanted to say something, his lips parting slightly before he caught himself, shaking his head as though to clear it.
âYouâre something else, you know that?â he said instead, his voice tinged with a mix of affection and exasperation.
You laughed lightly, though your heart was racing. âI could say the same about you, Winchester.â
Dean smiled, a soft, almost shy thing that you werenât sure youâd ever seen from him before. It made your chest ache in a way you couldnât quite explain.
The night wore on, the cards forgotten as the conversation shifted and softened. And as you both eventually drifted off to sleep, the unspoken weight between you lingeredâheavy, but not unwelcome. Something had shifted tonight, and though neither of you said it out loud, Dean definitely felt it.
The next morning came too quickly, the sunlight creeping through the cheap motel blinds, casting long streaks of gold across the room. You groaned, rolling over and burying your face in the pillow. It had been far too late by the time you and Dean had finally called it a night, and the weight of the previous dayâs hunt still clung to your bones.
âRise and shine,â Deanâs gruff voice called from somewhere across the room.
You peeked out from under the pillow to see him standing by the small table near the window, a cup of coffee in hand. His hair was still messy, sticking up in every direction, but he looked more awake than you felt.
âToo early,â you muttered, your voice muffled by the pillow.
Dean smirked, taking a sip of his coffee. âCome on, princess. Samâs already up and doing his research thing. If you donât hurry, heâs gonna eat all the good stuff from the diner.â
âYou mean the diner with the greasy eggs and burnt toast?â you shot back, sitting up and stretching with a groan.
âHey, donât knock the classics,â Dean said with mock seriousness. âBesides, nothing beats a diner breakfast after a long night.â
You rolled your eyes but couldnât help the small smile tugging at your lips. âFine, fine. Let me get ready.â
As you shuffled off to the bathroom, Dean found himself watching you again, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. Last nightâs conversation lingered in his mind, your words, your laughter, the way youâd looked at him like he wasnât just another hunter destined for an early grave.
He shook his head, muttering to himself, âGet it together, Dean.â
By the time you emerged, dressed and somewhat more awake, Sam had returned with takeout containers from the diner. He looked up from his laptop as you and Dean settled in at the table.
âMorning,â Sam said, sliding a container your way.
âMorning,â you replied, popping it open to reveal the aforementioned greasy eggs and toast. You glanced at Dean, smirking. âYou werenât kidding.â
âTold you,â he said around a mouthful of bacon.
Sam raised an eyebrow at the two of you, his gaze lingering for a moment before he went back to his research. âIâve got something on the case,â he said, pushing his laptop toward the middle of the table. âLooks like the creature weâre dealing with is a revenant. Thereâs a legend in the area about a vengeful spirit thatâs been digging itself out of graves for decades.â
Dean leaned forward, his playful demeanor from earlier slipping into something more focused. âAlright. How do we take it down?â
âSalt and burn the bones, standard procedure,â Sam said. âProblem is, the spiritâs been moving from body to body. Weâll need to track down where itâs currently buried.â
âOf course we will,â Dean muttered, rubbing a hand over his face.
You set your fork down, your expression thoughtful. âAnything that could help us narrow it down? Specific cemeteries, unmarked graves?â
Sam nodded. âThereâs a pattern. Itâs been sticking to graves on the outskirts of town, ones that donât get a lot of visitors. Iâve marked a few on the map we can check out.â
Dean glanced at you, his eyes searching yours for a brief moment. âGuess weâve got our work cut out for us.â
You nodded, trying to ignore the way his gaze lingered just a little too long. âLetâs get to it, then.â
The three of you piled into the Impala shortly after, the trunk loaded with shovels, salt, and lighter fluid. Castiel appeared in the backseat with his usual abruptness, offering a brief nod of acknowledgment before falling into silence.
As the Impala roared to life and Dean pulled onto the highway, the air in the car was filled with the low hum of the radio, Samâs quiet musings about the case, and your occasional input.
But every so often, Deanâs eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, catching your reflection as you gazed out the window. And each time, his grip on the steering wheel tightened, his chest tightening with it.
He didnât know how it happened, or when, but this thingâwhatever it wasâwasnât going away.
The sun was setting by the time you reached the third cemetery, painting the sky in streaks of red and gold that bled into the shadows of the thick tree line. The air felt oppressive, heavy with something unspoken that prickled at the back of your neck.
Dean cut the engine of the Impala, the silence that followed almost deafening. Sam had marked this as the most likely spot for the revenantâs remainsâa forgotten graveyard on the outskirts of town, its boundaries consumed by creeping vines and overgrown brush.
âThis place gives me the creeps,â you muttered, your eyes scanning the twisted trees that loomed over the plot like skeletal fingers clawing at the sky.
Dean smirked faintly, grabbing his shotgun as he stepped out of the car. âWhat, this isnât your idea of a perfect Saturday night?â
You shot him a look, grabbing your own weapon before following him. âNot unless it ends with me still breathing.â
Sam unfolded a crumpled map, his flashlight casting a shaky beam across the paper. âThe grave should be near the western edge,â he said, his voice low. âLetâs move fast. If this thingâs still active, it wonât just sit around waiting for us.â
Castiel appeared beside you without warning, his presence sudden and eerie as always. He surveyed the area with narrowed eyes, his gaze sharp and unyielding. âThereâs something here,â he said, his voice a quiet rumble. âI can feel it.â
Dean tightened his grip on the shotgun. âThen letâs not waste any time.â
The four of you moved as one, weaving through the crumbling headstones and tangled underbrush. The forest seemed to close in the farther you went, the air growing colder with every step.
When you finally found the grave, it was as Sam had describedâpartially disturbed, the earth uneven and freshly turned. You knelt by it, your fingers brushing the damp soil as a chill ran down your spine.
âThis is it,â you said, your voice barely above a whisper.
Dean didnât hesitate. He dropped his bag and grabbed a shovel, motioning for you to do the same. The two of you worked in silence, the sound of metal striking earth echoing in the stillness.
The unease in the air grew heavier as you dug, a tangible weight pressing down on your chest. You couldnât shake the feeling that something was watching you, its gaze crawling over your skin like a thousand invisible spiders.
âDean,â you said softly, pausing to wipe the sweat from your brow. âDo you feel that?â
âYeah,â he muttered, his jaw tight. âKeep digging.â
It didnât take long to reach the coffin. The wood was splintered and rotting, the smell of decay seeping into the air as Dean pried it open with the edge of his shovel. Inside were the remains of the revenantâa twisted, grotesque form that seemed to radiate malice even in death.
âSalt and burn,â Dean said, his voice low but firm. He reached for the salt, but before he could pour it, the ground beneath your feet trembled.
A low, guttural growl rumbled through the air, and the shadows around you seemed to come alive, twisting and writhing with unnatural movement.
âSomethingâs here,â Castiel said sharply, stepping forward as his hand reached for the blade at his side.
Before anyone could react, the first attack came. A figure erupted from the darkness, its hollow eyes glowing with an unholy light as it lunged for Dean. You barely had time to shout a warning before it was on him, its claws raking across his chest.
âDean!â you screamed, swinging your machete with all the strength you could muster. The blade connected with the creatureâs side, sending it staggering back with an ear-splitting screech.
Dean stumbled, blood soaking into his shirt, but he didnât fall. Gritting his teeth, he raised his shotgun and fired, the rock salt tearing through the creatureâs chest in a burst of smoke and ash.
âStay on it!â he barked, his voice rough with pain.
The creature wasnât alone. More shapes emerged from the shadows, their twisted forms circling the group like predators closing in on their prey.
Sam fired his weapon, the sharp cracks of his gun splitting the night as you and Dean fought back-to-back, your movements frantic but coordinated.
âCastiel!â Dean shouted, his voice strained. âA little help here!â
The angel stepped forward, his blade gleaming with an otherworldly light. With a single, fluid motion, he drove it into the nearest creature, its body dissolving into ash with an agonized scream.
But for every one you took down, another seemed to rise in its place.
âTheyâre protecting the grave,â Sam yelled, reloading his gun. âWe have to finish the job!â
Dean swore under his breath, grabbing the salt and dumping it into the coffin as quickly as he could. You covered him, your machete slicing through the air as another creature lunged at you, its claws missing your face by mere inches.
âLight it!â you shouted, your heart pounding in your chest.
Dean fumbled with his lighter, his blood-slicked fingers struggling to get it to spark. The creatures were closing in now, their guttural growls drowning out everything else.
Finally, the flame caught. Dean dropped the lighter into the coffin, and the fire roared to life, consuming the remains in a burst of heat and light.
The creatures screamed as one, their forms twisting and writhing before disintegrating into ash. The air around you grew still, the oppressive weight lifting as quickly as it had descended.
For a moment, none of you moved. The only sound was your ragged breathing and the crackle of the dying fire.
âYou okay?â you asked, turning to Dean.
He nodded, but his face was pale, and his hand pressed tightly against the wound on his chest. âIâll live,â he said, his voice strained.
You stepped closer, your heart still racing. âYou scared the hell out of me.â
Dean managed a weak signature smirk. âWhat, you think Iâm gonna check out that easy?â
Before you could respond, Castiel appeared at his side, his hand glowing faintly as he pressed it against Deanâs chest. The wound closed within seconds, the pain in Deanâs expression easing as the angel stepped back.
âThanks, Cas,â Dean said, his voice quieter now.
Castiel nodded. âWe should leave before anything else stirs.â
You didnât need to be told twice.
As you all walked back to the Impala, the weight of the hunt settled over the group, the adrenaline fading as quickly as it had come. The night was quiet now, the sound of your footsteps the only thing breaking the stillness. Deanâs shoulder brushed against yours again, a fleeting touch, but it lingered longer than it should have. You could feel the tension radiating off him, his presence just as solid and comforting as ever. But there was something different in the air nowâsomething unspoken between the two of you.
Once you reached the car, the familiar rumble of the engine starting up seemed to snap the moment away. Dean slammed the gearshift into place, the engine growling as he pulled onto the road. His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of you before his gaze quickly returned to the road ahead. The silence stretched between the four of you, but it was different this time. He could feel it. And he wasnât the only one.
Deanâs grip tightened on the steering wheel, the leather worn and familiar under his palms. The road stretched out before him, a dark ribbon cutting through the night. He could feel the weight of the day pressing down on him, the blood still heavy in his veins, the scent of salt and burning bones still lingering on his skin.
His mind kept drifting back to the cemeteryâthe cold earth, the eerie silence that had fallen after the last of the creatures disintegrated into ash. And then there was you. He could still feel the heat of the battle in his muscles, but it wasnât just the fight that had his mind racing now. It was the way you had looked at himâlike youâd been there with him, every step, every breath. The way youâd stepped into the fray without hesitation, watching his back like he had yours. He wasnât sure when it happened, or how, but somewhere between the bullets and the blood, he had come to realize that you meant something more to him than he could ever admit.
Deanâs jaw clenched as he glanced at you in the rearview mirror. You were there, just behind him, eyes distant as the road blurred past. Youâd said nothing since the fight endedânothing about the blood that had stained his shirt, nothing about the sharp pain in his side, nothing about the way heâd stumbled once the adrenaline had started to wear off.
He could feel it, though. There was a change. He didnât know what it was exactly, but it was there. Maybe it had always been there, lurking just beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to surface. But tonight⊠tonight had cracked something open, and now it was all he could think about.
The familiar hum of the Impala was a small comfort, but it couldnât drown out the thoughts swirling in his mind. He glanced over at Sam, who was bent over the map, his brow furrowed as he continued to check the coordinates of the next hunt. Samâs focus was always a welcome distraction, but tonight even his presence wasnât enough to pull Dean away from the realization that was settling heavy in his chest.
Dean shook his head, trying to push it away. He didnât have time for distractions. Not now, not ever. This life was built on loss, on keeping your distance, on not letting anyone get too close. Especially not you.
But damn it, every time his eyes flicked over to you in the rearview mirror, he couldnât help but notice how your presence seemed to anchor him in a way nothing else did. The way you moved in the car, the way your lips quirked up into that soft, effortless smile every time you caught him looking. He could feel your eyes on him, even when you werenât speaking. And it was killing him. It was killing him because he didnât know how to make sense of it. He didnât know how to keep ignoring it.
Another glance at you. You were quiet, lost in your thoughts, but there was something different in the air. Dean knew you, maybe better than anyone, and tonight, there was a shift. It was subtle, but it was there. Something in the way you were no longer looking at him like he was just a brother in arms, but maybeâjust maybeâsomething more.
Deanâs chest tightened as he stared straight ahead at the road. He didnât want this. He didnât want to think about it, didnât want to feel anything more than the usual sharp edge of survival that had kept him going all these years. But as the miles passed and the silence stretched between you, the questionâno, the fearâclung to him.
What if you felt the same way?
What if he wasnât the only one who had started to notice the tension, the crackling air between you both? What if this thingâthe one that was impossible to ignore nowâwas real?
Dean clenched his teeth, a muscle in his jaw ticking. The last thing he needed was to complicate things. You were one of the few people he could trust, and in this life, trust was everything. Youâd fought beside him, youâd bled beside him. He couldnât risk losing that.
But as the Impala roared through the night, and the sound of the tires against the asphalt seemed to drown out everything else, he realized it didnât matter. He couldnât deny it anymore.
You were getting under his skin. And he didnât know what to do about it.