Hey! So I saw you’re taking requests and as a Dean girly, I’m thinking about Y/N and Dean being childhood friends, they end up going to Briar U together, she goes to all his games wearing his jersey to support him.
I’m thinking about maybe he overhears a teammate or someone from the other team talk about Y/N in a way that makes Dean fight them. Y/N witnesses the whole thing so she takes Dean outside for a breather and brings him to her dorm room so she can clean his cuts and bruises, I’m thinking she’s a nursing major, and dean confesses his feelings.
She later confessed that she also has feelings for him but she didn’t want to lose him as a friend. Please and thank you!
thank you so much for sending this in! you can read it here <3
summary: you and dean have been best friends since forever, there was hardly anything you could ever keep from each other, so it's not surprising all it takes for you to confess your feelings is a very short-tempered dean and his excessive urge to defend your honor.
content/warnings: fluff, childhood friends to lovers, cursing, brief description of fighting, also brief mention of blood, the good old tend-to-his-wounds trope, love confession because it's cheesy like that, making out.
word count: 1.7k
Dean Di Laurentis wasn't one to throw punches—not without a good reason, at least. You know this with the conviction only someone who knows him since childhood could have. Being his best friend since before you could learn how to walk meant you became awfully familiar with all of his flaws and never once looked at him wrong for any of it.
Yes, he was annoyingly vain and could act like a total prick when he really wanted to. Yes, he was thick headed enough to chose one of the most intense—and agressive—sports to play and still manage to be ridiculously good at it. And yes, he was intense and aggressive about it most times, as you eventually grew accostumed to throughout the years.
Still, you've never seen Dean act the way he did on tonight's game.
You've learned to expect the worst when it came to hockey. By now, you'd just sit on the edge of your seat every time you came to watch one of Dean's games—as you naturally did, every single one of them since he started playing—and pray that it didn't end up like that one time he got his head banged so hard against the glass that he got a concussion, your legs bouncing restlessly beneath you and your heart leaping in your throat.
Maybe that kind of acceptance had been the reason why you were so caught off guard when, seemingly upon hearing something a player from the opposite team said during the game, Dean abandoned his stick entirely and launched himself at the guy like an animal out of a cage. You watched completely frozen in place as he grabbed the player by his collar and shook him with such intensity they fell onto the ice, not wasting a second before he was lifting his arm in the air and then lowering his closed fist to collide against the guy's face, still protected by his helmet.
Dean punched him again. Then again. Then one more time before Garrett finally got to him and managed to lift him by the back of his jersey. By then, the crowd was audibly gasping behind the glass and you were suddenly on your feet, clutching your chest and willing your lungs to work, to breathe in some air before you passed out from sheer shock and worry.
Your hands are still shaking an hour later, your fingers trembling slightly as you lift a piece of gauze and press it directly against Dean's bloody knuckles. The antiseptic drenching the material makes him hiss audibly under his breath.
"Shit, that thing stings." He complains, reflexively trying to pull away his arm upon the harsh contact against split skin. You grip him tighter, pulling him back by his wirst with more force than probably necessary.
"Yeah, that's what you get for scaring me like that," You retort, and the pointed look you send him makes Dean's scowling expression morph into something that might as well just be remorse. "And it's only getting worse. I've got a lot of frustration to take out on your pretty hands right now, so you better start talking. What the hell happened?"
Your pulse has a rapid rhythm to it now, irritation rising as a response to the feeling of being scared half to death by the last person you want to see put himself in danger. When Dean doesn't immediately respond, the anger only grows hotter inside you, your eyebrows lifting in a silent command for him to talk.
"He talked about you." He mumbles, so quietly you almost miss it. His eyes won't find yours while he speaks, but you can still sense the tension radiating from him at each word Dean manages to spit out. "That fucker said he would pick a prize after winning the game, then looked right at you through the glass. I saw it."
You stay silent for a long moment then, your fingers stilling where they had been wiping the blood off the back of his hand because there's something in the way he says it that makes you stop and look at him—really look at him.
His shoulders are so stiff with tension they're practically reaching his ears, his free hand closed around one of your ankles with a sort of defensiveness that suggests you might as well be pulled away from him if he doesn't hold you hard enough. You can't put together how something so small has managead to leave him like this.
"That's hardly a good excuse for what you did in there." You manage to say after a few seconds, your voice sounding smaller than you intended when it cuts through the silence that fills your dorm room. "I can take care of myself, you know that better than anyone else."
Dean releases a short chuckle that has anything but humor in it. A muscle in his jaw jumps like he's holding back something that presses just behind his teeth, threatening to come out. "Yeah, I do."
"Then why, Dean? Why would you take a risk like that?"
"Because I wanted to."
It's your turn to scoff now. "You're gonna have to do better than that."
"Because I couldn't help it." He finally shatters, and it's probably the most genuine, unguarded tone you've ever heard coming out of his mouth. Your jaw slackens, mouth falling open in surprise. "Because he fucking talked about you and it made me want to do something about it. Because he had the audacity to think he had some kind of right over you and I just couldn't stand there—couldn't stand there and hear him talk like that about someone I love and do nothing."
Your heart drops to your stomach so suddenly a choked out sound escapes past your lips, the words hanging impossibly heavy in the air between you. Sure, he has said I love you before. You've been best friends since you were children, you've been saying it for years like it's basically second nature.
But it's different now. Even before the words can finish leaving his mouth, you know it's different.
"Dean." Is the only thing you can manage to say. Just the four letters, something familiar to keep you grounded while the whole world seems to bend around you.
Dean looks anywhere but at you, blue eyes darting between his fingers securing your calf and the gauze you're still holding against his knuckles, the white fabric now turned pink with his blood—he searches for any other thing that isn't the look on your face after he has finally released the words he's been trying to hold back for way too much time now.
"Dean Di Laurentis, if you don't look at me right now—" You start arguing, but the words stop right there, because Dean does look, and his eyes are doing this unfamiliar thing that makes it seem like he's handing you something precious and begging you not to break it.
Your heart gives a sudden squeeze in your chest, the words punched out of you before you can help it. "I love you too."
Dean startles like he didn't expect you to say it—like he didn't expect you to say anything at all. You watch his expression change from surprise to expectation and then back to that face he makes when he thinks you're only doing something to make him happy, even when you can still see a hint of hope flickering behind his eyes.
"You don't have to—"
"Don't," You cut in sharply. "Don't say anything. Just kiss me."
The moment of hesitation is barely more than a split second. Dean blinks once, maybe twice as his brain works to register the words, and then he's already surging towards you. His hand flies to the back of your head, a gentle but firm grip settling on your nape. He uses it to guide your lips to his with such confidence you nearly yelp under his touch, your hands lifting to close around the fabric of his shirt before you melt into the kiss.
You feel the change in him when Dean finally feels your mouth on his. His whole body turns toward you, his free hand lifting to your waist like something has finally clicked into place inside him and he knows exactly where to touch you and exactly how much closer to pull you so your body fits perfectly against his.
It's unbelievable and utterly insane—how natural it feels when his tongue darts out to slip inside your mouth and how you barely think before tilting your head back to grant him better access, the way Dean makes a sound deep in his chest when your tongue meets him halfway, a satisfacted rumble that also seems to demand more.
Not enough. Your body seems to chant it under the thrum of your heart, some dormant instinct willing you to pull him impossibly closer, to adjust your position against him so you're lifting yourself just enough to straddle his hips.
Dean catches you immediately, both hands shifting to secure your waist and pull you onto his lap effortlessly. His arms circle tightly around you, bringing you flush against his chest as his tongue continues to explore your mouth like he's trying to reach parts no one has ever reached before.
It isn't until your lungs start gasping for air that you finally register the need to pull away. Dean allows you to pull back just enough to catch a glimpse of your now flushed face, his eyes lowering to your lips and staying there as he studies the way your mouth parts to catch some air.
His voice is hoarse when finally speaks, low and slightly frail at the edges from how wide he's smiling against the words. "There's no going back in this, you know that? You're mine now."
Your lips curl against Dean's mouth, your breath shallow against his equally weak one. You take in the slight flutter to his eyelids, the way his pupils are fully blown behind them as he looks up at you like you're the only thing to ever exist for him, your gaze then shifting to where his heart beats rapidly under your palm. That's how you realize you're exactly where you belong.
