⋆｡ ˚ the shape of staying
summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ you can survive hunting beside dean winchester; what’s harder is surviving the slow, unbearable heartbreak of almost being loved by him. pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ dean winchester x chubby!oc ( f ) wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 3580 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ angsty fluff warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ mutual pining, friends to lovers, body-image insecurity, slight age gap, jealousy, mention of dean’s casual flirting and past hookups, emotional avoidance, roadside argument, dean winchester’s spectacularly poor self-worth, crying, comfort, kissing, soft ending!!
notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ this is my very first commission for the lovely @croatcan and god damn is it special! 🥹 i think it turned out lovely, so i hope you enjoy reading this 🩷
˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ request your fanfic ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ
the problem is that dean winchester touches you almost as if he’s forgotten you’re not his.
it’s never enough to call him out on. that’s the clever part, whether he intends it to or not. his palm settles against the small of your back when he guides you through a crowded bar, warm and broad through the thin fabric of your shirt, but it’s gone before you can turn the moment into anything more dangerous. his knee presses against yours beneath diner tables because he always takes up too much room. he drapes his arm around your shoulders when the three of you are walking back to the impala after a hunt, pulling you close enough that your hip bumps against his side whenever you take a step. and he calls you kid when you elbow him for it.
none of it means anything. that’s what you tell yourself.
dean is dean. he flirts when he’s bored, when he’s nervous, when the waitress is pretty, when the bartender has long legs and a low-cut shirt. the women he notices are always beautiful in that uncomplicated, glossy sort of way. slim waists. narrow hips. the effortless confidence of somebody who knows exactly what happens when a guy like him looks across a room and smiles at them.
you know what happens, too. you’ve been hunting with the brothers long enough to see the pattern.
and the harsh truth is that it shouldn’t bother you. you know the softness of your stomach doesn’t make you less capable of putting a bullet through a moving target. you know your thighs are strong enough to carry you through a graveyard at a sprint, your arms steady enough to haul sam upright when something throws him into a wall. you love your tattoos. you like the curve of your waist and the way your brown hair falls around your face when you stop trying to tame it. you don’t need to become smaller to deserve anything.
it would be easier if he stopped touching you. it would be easier if you wanted him less.
“it’s gonna open up again if you keep glaring at it that hard.” dean’s voice brings you back to the motel room.
rain taps steadily against the window, turning the parking lot outside into a blur of wet pavement and neon. the room smells faintly of bleach, damp denim, and the pizza sam has abandoned on the small table beside an open laptop. sam is in the shower, washing graveyard dirt out of his hair while you sit on the floor between dean’s knees at the edge of one bed.
his flannel is open. the black t-shirt underneath is pushed up far enough to expose the shallow gash along his ribs, angry and red but no longer bleeding. you’ve cleaned it carefully. all that remains is the bandage, which would be easier to apply if dean would stop watching your face.
“i’m not glaring,” you mutter.
“you’ve got the murder eyes.”
“these are my regular eyes.”
his mouth twitches. “nah. regular ones are bigger. cuter.”
you press the adhesive strip down harder than necessary.
dean sucks air through his teeth. “jesus, annie.”
“sorry.” you are not. still, the brief sting of guilt settles uncomfortably beneath your ribs when he lifts one hand and curls his fingers loosely around your wrist.
his thumb brushes your pulse once, absent and affectionate, as if this is not slowly hollowing you out from the inside. his expression changes when you pull away. not dramatically, though. dean is too practiced for that. he drops his hand and reaches for the hem of his shirt, tugging it back into place with a shrug that is almost convincing.
“all fixed,” you say, standing before he can find another reason to keep you close.
his gaze follows you. “you okay?”
“fine.”
“you’ve been saying that a lot lately.”
you busy yourself with the first-aid kit. the gauze packet refuses to slide into the side compartment properly. you try again, jaw tight. “probably because i’m fine a lot lately.”
“right.” the answer is dry enough to scrape.
you’ve been trying to put space between you for three weeks. it’s not working particularly well because hunting doesn’t offer much room for distance. there are still hours folded into the impala beside him, cramped motel rooms, diner booths.
but you’ve stopped curling against his side on the couch when sam puts on documentaries none of you are truly watching. you sit in the back seat more often. you avoid the kitchen when dean cooks breakfast in his robe, bare-legged and half-awake, because he always presses a kiss to the crown of your head when he reaches over you for the coffee grounds.
it’s embarrassing how badly you miss something you never had.
“we should get a drink,” dean says.
you glance at him. “we should sleep.”
“we killed a nest of vamps in a barn that smelled worse than the trunk after that rugaru in ohio. we earned a drink.”
the bathroom door opens before you can argue. sam steps out with damp hair and a towel draped around his shoulders, his eyes moving between you and dean with the cautious awareness of somebody who knows exactly what you’re both feeling and keeping bottled down.
“drink?” dean asks him.
sam looks at you for half a second too long. “i’m going to finish the research.”
“nerd.”
“somebody has to make sure there isn’t a second nest.”
“annie?”
you should say no. you’re tired, and your nerves feel worn thin beneath your skin. sitting in a bar with dean is an exercise in pretending you don’t watch him without meaning to.
instead, you sigh. “one drink.”
his smile comes too easily, bright enough to make your chest hurt. “that’s my girl.”
it’s a thoughtless phrase. dean is already grabbing his jacket when he says it. he doesn’t even notice how still you become.
but sam does. his gaze catches yours over dean’s shoulder, sympathetic in a way you cannot bear to acknowledge, so you look down and zip the first-aid kit closed.
the bar is attached to the motel, a narrow room with battered tables, a glowing jukebox, and the sort of carpet that has survived several decades through sheer stubbornness. a baseball game plays silently on the television above the liquor shelves. dean orders whiskey. you ask for a beer and slide onto a stool with one empty seat between you, a small act of self-preservation that lasts approximately two minutes before dean moves closer when somebody needs to squeeze past. he doesn’t move away again.
you talk about nothing. that’s one of the worst parts. it’s easy with him. even now. you make dean laugh so abruptly he nearly chokes on his whiskey, and the warm, pleased feeling in your chest arrives before you can stop it.
“you’re trouble,” he says.
“i’m delightful.”
“you’re a pain in my ass.”
“and yet you keep me around.”
“somebody’s gotta supervise you, kid.”
the nickname comes softer than it should be, threaded through with fondness. dean shifts closer and drops his arm around your shoulders, drawing you against his side with an ease that feels practiced. his fingers rest against your upper arm. his thumb moves once over the fabric of your shirt.
you know you should push him away. instead, you let yourself have it. just for a minute.
the bartender appears in front of you with dean’s second whiskey. she’s pretty, with sleek blonde hair and a smile that lingers when she places the glass down. her eyes move toward dean’s arm around your shoulders before returning to his face.
“anything else for you two?” she asks.
“think we’re good,” dean says.
she smiles. “your girlfriend keeping you out of trouble tonight?”
it should be nothing. a stranger making an easy assumption. a moment dean could laugh off in a dozen harmless ways. he could remove his arm. he could change the subject.
instead, his body tenses beside yours.
“annie?” his laugh comes out uneven. “nah. she knows better than to make that mistake.”
the bartender gives him a smile, already turning away.
dean’s arm remains around you.
that’s what breaks something open. the weight of his hand still resting comfortably against your arm, the warmth of him wrapped around you while he says it. it’s the easy, careless expectation that you’ll sit here and take whatever scraps he gives you because you always have.
you move before you think better of it, shoving his arm off your shoulders as you stand.
his expression changes immediately. “hey—”
“i’m going back to the room.”
“what? hang on.”
you walk out before your face can betray you. rain catches in your hair as soon as you step beyond the awning. the motel sign flickers overhead, buzzing pink and blue against the dark.
“annabella.” the use of your full name follows you into the parking lot.
you don’t stop.
“come on,” dean calls, closer now. “would you slow down for a second?”
you should go to the motel room. sam is there. the door is less than thirty feet away, warm light visible behind the curtains. but the thought of walking in and seeing the pity on sam’s face makes your stomach turn, so you keep moving, passing the impala and reaching the edge of the lot.
“where the hell are you going?”
“for a walk.”
“in the rain? it’s already dark!”
“i need air.”
“annie, get back here.”
you turn then, rain sliding down your cheeks, anger burning hot enough to overpower the ache lodged beneath it. “stop telling me what to do.”
dean freezes, even if for a second. then, his jaw tightens, his fear disguising itself as irritation so quickly you might’ve missed it if you didn’t know him this well.
“fine,” he says. “you want air? take a minute. but you’re not walking down some dark road alone in the middle of nowhere.”
“just leave me the hell alone, dean.”
dean’s face closes in that familiar, infuriating way. the wall comes up. he stands beneath the motel lights with rain darkening the shoulders of his jacket.
you walk away.
the road is nearly empty, slick with rain and edged by wet grass. you fold your arms across your chest and keep moving, breathing through the pressure building behind your eyes, furious with him and with yourself and with every stupid little moment you have held too close.
you make it less than half a mile.
the roar of the impala reaches you first. headlights sweep across the road before the car pulls sharply onto the shoulder ahead of you, tires spitting water across the gravel. the driver’s door opens almost before the engine cuts.
“get in the car.”
you stop walking. “no.”
“annabella.”
“i said no.”
his hands flex uselessly at his sides. “then talk to me.”
“there’s nothing to talk about.”
“bullshit.”
“go away, dean.”
“not happening.”
“you can’t order me into the car because you feel guilty.”
“guilty? this isn’t—” he breaks off, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. his eyes are wide and bright beneath the passing sweep of another car’s headlights. “i don’t know what the hell just happened back there.”
a laugh catches painfully in your throat. “of course you don’t.”
“so tell me.”
you stare at him. dean has always been able to do this, somehow. he digs and digs until the truth is bleeding between your teeth, then acts surprised that it has a shape. you are exhausted. too tired to make it prettier for him. too tired to protect him from a feeling he has been carelessly feeding for months.
“i’m in love with you.”
you hate how much it hurts that he stills. you hate that some small, humiliating part of you has waited for this exact second anyway, always searching for proof that you might have misunderstood him. but he says nothing, and the silence is unbearable.
you nod once, swallowing hard. “yeah. that’s what happened back there.”
“annie—”
“i know.” your voice cracks. you look away, blinking against the rain. “i know you don’t feel the same way. i am not asking you to. i thought i could handle it. i thought it would pass if i stopped being stupid about every little thing you do, but you keep—”
you press the heel of your hand against your chest, frustrated by the tears slipping free despite your best efforts.
“you keep touching me as if i’m yours. you keep looking at me as if there is something here. you pull me into you, and you call me your girl, and then you flirt with women who look nothing like me because that’s what you actually want. that’s fine. it is. you’re allowed to want whatever you want. but i can’t keep standing beside you while you remind me that i’m not it.”
“no.” the word comes out rough.
you shake your head. “i’m tired, dean.”
“listen—”
“i’m tired of trying to be grateful for whatever version of you i get. i’m tired of feeling pathetic every time you put your hand on me and i let myself think about what it would feel like if you meant it. i never wanted to make this your problem, but i can’t do it anymore.” your breath shudders. “i can’t keep hunting with you. i can’t keep living like this. i don’t want to see you again.”
panic strips every trace of irritation from his face. “don’t say that.”
“dean—”
“don’t.” he moves toward you, then stops himself so abruptly it looks painful. his voice drops, ragged at the edges. “don’t say you’re leaving.”
you wrap your arms tighter around yourself. “what else am i supposed to do?”
for one awful second, he only stares at you. then, dean winchester sinks to his knees on the wet roadside.
gravel crunches beneath his jeans. rain beads in his hair. he reaches for you carefully, both hands settling against your hips as if he needs something solid to hold on to, his fingers curving around the softness of your body without hesitation.
“dean, get up.”
“no. listen to me.” his voice breaks. “please.”
you look at him and his eyes are wet. maybe it is only the rain.
“you’ve got this wrong,” he says, each word unsteady. “god, annie, you’ve got it so so wrong.” his thumbs press lightly into your sides, grounding himself more than you. “i meant it every time i touched you. i mean it right now. you think you’re not what i want because you don’t look like some woman at a bar? sweetheart, i know exactly what you look like. i know how you fit against me. i know i’ve spent months trying not to stare at your mouth whenever you smile. i know i think about putting my hands right here so often it makes me feel sixteen and stupid.”
the softness of it nearly ruins you.
“then why?” you whisper. “why would you say that?”
his expression folds inward. “because i’m a coward.”
you shake your head automatically, but dean doesn’t let you rescue him from it.
“i know how to lose people,” he says. “i’m good at that. i know how to want something for one night and walk away before i screw it up. but you love people with your whole damn body, annabella. you hold on. you make space. you keep showing up.” his grip turns gentler. “and i wanted all of it. i wanted you so bad i convinced myself the decent thing was leaving it alone, because you deserve better than getting stuck with me.”
there it is—the ugliest, most familiar part of him. the piece that believes love is another weapon he might mishandle if he lets himself hold it too tightly.
“dean,” you whisper.
“but i feel it too.”
the words stop you cold.
his hands tighten around your hips, enough to keep you there while his voice turns rougher with every breath. he looks terrified. not of the rain, or the roadside, or the possibility of something lurking beyond the dark line of trees. of you. of what he’s saying and what happens after he can’t take it back.
“i love you too, annabella.” his throat works around the words. “so damn much it scares the hell outta me.”
you stare down at him, unable to move.
“you think i don’t know what i’m doing when i touch you? you think i don’t notice every time you lean into me, or when you fall asleep on my shoulder, or when you wrap your arms around me after a hunt and hold on a little tighter because you know i need it?” his eyes search your face desperately. “i notice everything. i remember everything. that’s the problem.”
rain slides down the sharp line of his cheek. his voice lowers.
“people close to me get hurt.”
“dean—”
“they do.” he shakes his head before you can soften it for him. “and i can’t—annie, i can’t be the reason something happens to you. i can’t get you killed because i got greedy and wanted something good for myself. i can’t watch you bleed because some monster figures out exactly where to stick the knife.” his breath catches, and for a second, he has to look away. “i’d die if something happened to you. i would lose my damn mind.”
your chest aches so fiercely that breathing feels strange.
“something could happen to me anyway,” you say quietly. “i’m a hunter.”
“yeah, well, i hate that too.”
a wet, startled laugh slips out before you can stop it. dean’s gaze snaps back to your face. something fragile loosens in his expression when he hears it, the faintest curve tugging at his mouth despite the fear still sitting plainly in his eyes.
“there she is,” he murmurs.
your fingers find his wrists. his pulse beats hard beneath your touch.
“you don’t get to decide what risks i’m allowed to take,” you tell him. “not for me. and you don’t get to love me halfway because you’re scared of what happens if you let yourself have it.”
his face crumples for half a second before he catches himself. “i know,” he says. “i’m sorry.”
you believe him. that’s the dangerous thing. you believe every messy, frightened word of it.
dean rises slowly from the gravel, his hands sliding around your waist as he stands. he stays close when he reaches his full height, close enough that the warmth of his body cuts through the rain, close enough that his forehead nearly touches yours.
“i’m probably gonna screw this up,” he whispers.
“probably.”
his mouth twitches. “little harsh.”
“you earned that.”
“yeah.” his thumb brushes your side. “fair.”
then his gaze drops to your mouth, and all the teasing drains out of him.
“annie,” he says softly.
dean cups your face with one hand and draws you against him with the other, his mouth warm and careful for all of two seconds before months of restraint crack open between you. the kiss turns deeper, needier, rain cold against your cheeks while his body presses solidly into yours. there’s nothing uncertain in the way he holds you. nothing apologetic. his palm spans the curve of your waist as if he has wanted to know the shape of you beneath his hands for far too long.
when he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. both of you are breathing too hard.
“you’re freezing,” he murmurs.
“whose fault is that?”
“yours, obviously. walking dramatically into the rain. real chick-flick behavior.”
you stare at him.
“what?” he gives you a toothy smile. “too soon?”
a laugh breaks out of you, shaky and helpless, and dean smiles properly this time.
“say you won’t leave.” the words leave his lips carefully. there’s no demand in his tone. no typical dean winchester stubbornness. just a little more vulnerability that he’s willing himself to show because he cannot physically move without making sure.
you nod once. “i’m staying.”
relief softens his entire face. he kisses the corner of your mouth before bending suddenly and sliding one arm behind your knees.
“dean!”
he lifts you easily against his chest.
you grab his shoulders, startled laughter spilling out of you. “what the hell are you doing?!”
“saving you from pneumonia.”
“put me down.”
“nope.”
“dean!”
he carries you back toward the impala, holding you securely against him while your arms circle his neck. by the time he reaches the passenger side, your anger has softened into something tender and sore. not gone. not forgotten. but no longer yours to carry alone.
dean lowers you carefully onto your feet and opens the door.
“seat,” he says, pointing inside with a stern expression that lasts less than a second. “now.”
you roll your eyes as you climb in. “bossy.”
“yeah, yeah.”
he rounds the hood and slides behind the wheel, rainwater dripping from his hair onto his jacket. the engine rumbles to life. for a moment, neither of you speaks.
then dean reaches across the space between you and leaves his hand resting palm-up beside the gearshift. an offering. you look at it, then lace your fingers through his. his grip closes around yours gently.
dean pulls back onto the road with one hand on the wheel and the other holding yours between you, as if he’s still afraid you might disappear the second he lets go.
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