Gentle Love
synopsis ٠࣪⭑ Dean Winchester with a girlfriend that’s so gentle with him, he doesn’t know what to do with himself
contents ٠࣪⭑ Dean Winchester x reader (f), non-explicit, softhearted!reader, yearner!dean, dean winchesters in love, dean getting the treatment he deserves, 1.5k word count
notes ٠࣪⭑ Every time I see this man I have the strongest urge to take care of him, so I wrote a little about it
Dean doesn’t know what he did right in the his life to get a girl like you. Your gentle touches and sweet smiles weren’t meant for a guy like him. He was a broken, bruised, used, angry man— there was no world where he’d ever deserve the privilege and responsibility of holding your heart in his rough hands.
Dean felt a smile pull at the corners of his mouth before he’d even opened his eyes. The warm morning sun filtering through the ratty old sheers, lighting up the outdated motel room with a soft glow that almost makes it look cozy.
Your lips were soft and warm as they pressed gentle kisses onto his skin. He was barely conscious, and you were hardly awake yourself, your frame curled into his side, practically draped over him.
He can feel your soft hand at his jaw as you litter affection across his features. Kissing every freckle, every scar, every curve that made up his pretty face.
“W’dya doin?” His gravely morning voice murmured, a small sleepy smile on his lips, and his hand moving to settle on your waist, fingers flexing against your skin.
“G’morning, handsome” is all you reply with, your own features mirroring his smile, leaning in again to press a soft kiss to his lips, then another, and another. Not caring about morning breath one bit.
His smile softened, almost shyly, at the nickname and finally his eyes start to flutter open. Your hair’s a mess and you’re wearing one of his old band shirts, the stretched out collar practically hanging off your shoulder, flashing that sweet smile that makes his heart skip a beat.
His smile widens and he chases your lips, softly pulling you closer and kissing you back, sleepily but so lovingly.
He sighs in contentment, his hand moving from your waist to pull you even closer, your body comfortably settling over his. A sound leaving your lips, a sound that signifies you feel safe and happy in his arms— his arms. He still can’t believe it.
It was moments like this that Dean never wanted to see end, because if he thinks about it too long he’ll start to wonder why you choose to be here.
A frustrated sigh leaves Dean’s lips, hands scrubbing over his face as he sits back. An array of research, books, papers and Sam’s laptop scattered in front of him. He’d been at this for hours.
The door to the motel room creaked open, the key jingling in your hand. Sam was following a lead while you and Dean stayed behind to research, much to his dismay. You headed out a little bit ago to grab some brain fuel from a cafe close by.
You walked in and set down the takeout bag, the one with thank you printed repeatedly on the thin plastic, and the coffees. Pushing one towards Dean before he could even say “hi”— a black coffee with a sugar packet, and some cinnamon for a little extra pizazz, an order you’d memorized so easily.
You’d always thought he was just one of those gruff guys who drank black coffee and thought it was pansy to have anything else, until one day you stole a sip in a desperate need for caffeine, and you were shocked, but the cinnamon was all you.
A little smirk pulled at his lips, despite his brain being fried, at the sight of the pie and it widened when he took a sip of his coffee.
“You remembered,” he murmured, letting the warmth of the drink take over.
“Of course— it’s what you always get,” you shrugged, “but I did add the cinnamon” you said with one of your sweet smiles, walking closer, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and pressing a kiss to his hair. He somehow already begins to soften at that alone.
“Figured a little pick me up was in order” you muttered, hands drifting to massage his shoulders a little, pressing a kiss to his cheek, "y’working too hard.”
Dean's shoulders relaxed, his eyes closing for a moment, hand coming up to briefly squeeze yours. Humming a soft sound of agreement.
He played it off well but something as small as you knowing his coffee order and telling him to take a break, pulled at his chest. Just the fact you’d cared enough about minuscule details enough to memorize them, for him, and taking time to take care of him did something to his insides.
Another day, another night coming back to a motel room after killing something awful. You, Sam, and Dean walk into the motel room, everyone banged up and exhausted. Sam practically beelines it to shower first, leaving you and Dean to finish peeling off your dirty bloody layers.
“Sit,“ your gentle voice broke the silence, tone syrupy sweet even now, your arms reaching for the homemade first aid kit that’s saved all of you so many times.
“m’fine, sweetheart” Dean mumbled, waving you off, his tone dripping with fatigue. He winced just a little as he pulled off his jacket— definitely not helping his case.
“Dean—” you warned, meaning it even though the kindness in your voice hadn’t wavered. You sat the, now opened, kit on the bed, motioning for him to sit again.
He complied with a little sigh of defeat, he couldn’t resist those soft pleading eyes of yours even if he tried. You got a rag damp with the spare water bottle on the nightstand, walking back over to Dean, standing between his legs and tilting up his face. His hands automatically settling themselves on your hips, like it was an inevitable gravitational pull.
The damp rag glided across his jaw, cleaning the half-dried monster blood off his face while your other hand cradled his head, your thumb absentmindedly caressing, just a little, where it rested on his skin.
The concentration on your face was so unnecessarily adorable, Dean just couldn’t look away. The tiny crease in your brow, the focus in your eyes, it made something warm grow in his chest.
“There he is,” you half-whispered under your breath once you’d finished, pressing a kiss to his cheek. His heart fluttered and a smile teased his lips at the endearment, hands flexing where they rested over your jeans.
He was quiet, suspiciously quiet, as you finished patching him up— he didn’t even make a slightly suggestive joke when you told him to take off his shirt, in order to get to his shoulder.
Unbeknownst to you, he was having a mini mental breakdown every time you touched him, every time you whispered a little “sorry” with a kiss when he’d tensed or winced, every glance or smile you threw his way.
Nobody ever took care of him, he took care of him along with everyone else. But you take care of him like it’s as easy as breathing, like it’s somehow automatic. He couldn’t let you slip away. You were the soft to his hard, the gentle to his jagged, the warmth to his emptiness, he’s never felt so affected by one person.
He’d thanked you when you were done, with the softest voice he could muster up. The smile it brought to your face made him want to speak like that forever.
“You don’t gotta thank me, Dee.” You replied with a kiss, “can’t have my guy hurt and bleeding all over the place, now can we?”
He just pulled you in again as a response, arms circling your waist, kissing you deeper than the little peck you gave him. You melted into it anyway, dropping the roll of bandage in your hands and your fingers moving to his hair.
When he pulled away you were a little breathless, cheeks dusted pink and there was a smile plastered on your face. Before you could say anything or remind him that Sam would be done showering any minute, he breaks the silence.
“I love you”
You freeze, genuinely pause— still looking in his eyes, wondering if you heard him wrong or if Dean Winchester actually just said I love you.
Before you could ask for clarification he kissed you again, and of course you followed despite your state of shock. It was a shorter kiss but nonetheless heartfelt. You blinked when he pulled away again.
Yep— that was definitely an I love you.
It wasn’t a you’re sweet, or a thanks, angel, or even a love ya, like usual. It wasn’t casual, it was a real “I love you” and he said it with the softest expression you’ve ever seen him wear. He didn’t stutter, didn’t hesitate, didn’t take it back, and wasn't drunk. He was stone cold sober.
You didn’t think you’d ever hear him actually say it— sure, you knew he cares about you, he likes having you around, and he kisses you like it’s his birthright, but— you’ve always loved or cared about people more than they loved you. Not to mention, Dean's reputation didn’t really scream commitment.
“I mean it…” he practically whispered, no doubt sensing your shock. You snapped out of it, a big shy smile growing bright on your lips despite how hard you tried to contain it.
“Yeah?…” you murmured, your smile audible. You ran your hands through his short strands, suddenly a little nervous.
He just nodded, the most lovesick expression taking over his face, your stunned state wasn’t lost on him. It felt like a physical pain to his chest that him saying I love you was so unbelievable that it would render you speechless, but the thought was interrupted by a little squeal escaping from behind your lips and many excited kisses.
“I love you too, Dean”
