Open The Door
✦Read on a03! - Masterlist - Dean Masterlist✦ ✦summary: Dean is known for never forming attachments. Never doing more than a night, never leading on, just loving and leaving. It's better like that. Safer. But for you, he can't stop himself from coming back every time.✦ ✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, kind of friends with benefits to lovers, angst, pining, Dean Winchester needs to talk about his feelings and get a hug, fluff, love confessions, light smut, light jealousy, no use of y/n✦ ✦author's note: I've wanted to do a fic like this for such a long time please enjoy it thank you✦
You always open the door.
Dean’s told you not to. He has these stupid code-words and questions you’re supposed to ask—riddles with strange answers like how do angels take their coffee, they don’t they prefer liquor, and does the king of hell like Tuesdays, yes, unless it’s his mother’s birthday—to make sure that it’s really him. Every time you open the door without asking them, he sighs and gives you a heavy look, refusing to cross the threshold until you play his little game.
“You gotta ask-“
“But I know it’s you-“
“Could not be me. Could be something wearing my face, sweetheart, we’ve talked about this-“
“I know we have.” You cross your arms over your chest. “And I told you. I know it’s you.”
Dean makes a face, like he wants to smile. He’s trying to fight it, to keep the upper hand in the argument, but he always caves. You smile at him, and hold a hand out.
“I could be a shifter.” He grunts, crossing his arms like he doesn’t trust himself not to take your hand. “Could be possessed. You been keepin’ the holy water like I-“
You toss it on his face, and giggle the way he barely even flinches.
Dean wipes his face, eyes shining on yours, and you know you’ve won.
Again.
For a game he insists you play, he’s quite bad at winning.
“Alright,” he smirks, slowly advancing through the door. “You’re gonna get it.”
You back away, smiling widely the whole time, and squeal as he chases you into your tiny apartment. There’s not much space for you to run—there’s barely enough space for Dean to fit—but you make do. He kicks the door closed and you retreat into the cluttered living room. You try to jump over the couch, but he catches you around the waist and you both fall into the cushion. When you wiggle a little for the show of it, Dean groans and hold you tighter against his chest.
He noses at your neck, kissing the soft skin under your jaw, and you keep giggling.
His presence does that to you. Makes you feel airy and foolish, the thrill of the coming days already buzzing over your skin, the joy in his return making you dizzy.
Because you’re never sure he’s going to return.
He’s told you that one day, he might not. That if that happens, you’re not allowed to look for him. If you’re lucky, he’ll just be dead.
“That’s lucky?” You’d asked, and he’d chuckled.
You’d been lying on his bare chest, his fingers mindlessly tracing your arm. You know about what he gets up to, when he’s not here. Know about the longer shadows in the world, know why the fifth time he was here—when you both realized that maybe this wasn’t the no-strings thing he’d claimed it had to be—he spent the whole weekend quizzing you about monsters and installing security in your apartment. You have a strange circle on the ceiling of every room that your friends call an interesting decoration choice. There’s dead man’s blood in your freezer, holy water in a flask near the door, and an iron poker in your living room, no fireplace to pair with it.
And you ask questions. So many questions. Dean says you’re worse than his brother sometimes, and you just kiss his nose because if he really found you annoying, he wouldn’t answer or bother to come back.
That night, you’d been asking about the worst thing he’d fought. He’d paused, then said God’s sister, and forbade you from asking follow-ups.
You’d ignored him. He couldn’t just say God’s sister then keep talking like that wasn’t fucking insane. It had only taken about two minutes to push him into saying the whole story. But when he’d finished, a long shadow had crossed his face. He’d held you a little closer, and given you the order to not look. You’d asked, because you always did.
And he’d entertained you, because he always does.
“Worse things than death, sweetheart.”
“Like what.”
“Y’know. Things.”
You’d given him a flat look. “Dean.”
He’d just smiled back, drawling your name, and you’d lowered yourself down over his face. Hovered an inch away, scanning over his smug, handsome face with narrowed eyes.
“Is there like, a Death two that you’re not telling me about?”
He’d snorted, running his hand through your hair. “Death two?”
You’d nodded, and he’d smiled up at you fondly.
“Nah. No death two.”
“Then what-“
“It’s- Nothin’ you wanna know about, baby, I promise-“
“Has it happened to you before?”
Dean had fallen silent. He’d let out a heavy breath, scanning over your face, and you’d dropped your brow over his.
“Please?” You’d whispered, and back then—almost a year ago, now—you still hadn’t understood why it was so important to know everything about him that you could.
You’d both been playing another one of his games. The one where he reminds you that this means nothing, and you act like that doesn’t split your soul in half. The one where Dean says that shit, then spends the whole weekend worshipping your body and treating it like it means everything, slowly stitching you back together. Then he leaves, and you promise him you won’t wait, and you both pretend to believe that you mean it.
You always wait. You always take everything he gives you. Collect every little fact and story and scar, and keep them in a special valve in your heart. A reserve, for the time that he’s gone. It acts as a fuel, keeping your love for him burning and alive, each little bit feeding into the others until you’re less spending the pieces like currency, and more adding water to the flow of a river. It sustains itself. It only grows and grows, sacred and gentle.
And you’re not sure if Dean feels the exact same. But he keeps coming back. He plays your games, letting you ask all your questions and collect your stories.
He looks at you like this could be something.
He touches you and speaks to you like he cares.
“You really wanna know?” He’d muttered, and you’d nodded. “It ain’t pretty-“
“I know. Please.”
Dean had rubbed his mouth, looking at you like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, and caved.
“There was this thing.” He’d said slowly, watching you so cautiously as he spoke. “Little while before we met. Whole shit with demons and Amara-“
“God’s sister.” You jump in quickly, because you want him to know you pay attention.
He’d smiled softly. “Yeah. Her. Well, she’d been shoved in a cage, and I was wearing the lock, and- It didn’t do good things to me. It messes with your head, makes you… Angry. Angry and violent. Turned Lucifer into the devil, made Cain kill his brother, made me… Something.” He’d swallowed, eyes dropping to your chest. “Got me killed. But it doesn’t let you just die. It brings you back. Makes you a demon.”
“And… Did you-“
“Yeah.”
“Oh.”
He’d nodded, trying to smile, but it hadn’t reached his eyes. You’d climbed a little further over his body, and just hugged him tight.
The tension had eased from his chest, as he hugged you back. When you’d looked up, there was something shining on his face that you hadn’t named as tears, but still wiped away gently.
Dean had caught your hand, giving you a desperate, almost pleading look.
“You gotta promise.” He’d rasped. “If I walk out and don’t come back, you move on. ‘Cause if that shit happens again, and you find me- It ain’t me that you’d be finding, sweetheart.”
“Okay.” You’d whispered. “Promise.”
It had soothed him. He’d nodded, relaxed into the mattress, and pulled you down into a long kiss.
And there are some things you don’t ask about. That you don’t really want to know. The kind of thing the Mark turned him into, what hell was like, the specifics of those nightmares he gets, where he wakes up with his limbs flailing and a wild, almost inhuman glint in his eyes.
He doesn’t seem to believe you, when you tell him that you like him how he is. He lets out that sad, huffing laugh and mutters you don’t know me, baby, and you just roll your eyes, and remind him that you do.
You really do.
You know Dean so well, for a stranger who’d been drowning in a bottle of whiskey at the bar downtown, and offered you the night of your life. Who’d said one time, then showed up on your door a month later. Then two months after that. Then three weeks, then another three, the one month again.
Dean says he lies for a living. That it’s a big part of his job, and he’s pretty damn good at it.
So either he’s a lot worse at his job than he’s led you believe, or he’s just really bad at lying to you.
Because he reminds you that he might not come back, every single time he goes. Reminds you that this—waving a hand between your bodies, backing up a whole step like he’s trying to remind himself—is still just fun. That’s it.
You nod, and let him do his little dance and show.
Then, like always, you end up like this. Tangled in his arms on the couch, his mouth tracing over your skin. Sucking small bruises where the last ones had faded. Slipping his hand under your shirt and rubbing, re-mapping your body, grinning whenever he traces a spot he knows is sensitive, proud of himself like he hasn’t done this a million times before.
“Missed you,” he whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth.
You twist, pressing your lips fully over his. He melts over you, cradling your face, wrapping an arm fully around your stomach. You smile against his mouth, opening when he swipes his tongue over your lips, humming happily as his hand splays possessively over your stomach.
“Missed you too.” You whisper back, and he makes a deep, almost purring sound from his chest.
You end up rolled over under him. He kisses you into the cushions, pulling off his flannel and almost ripping your shirt away, before letting his mouth wander down your body. You run your fingers through his hair—it’s gotten longer than you know he likes, you’ll cut it later—and moan as his mouth finds your nipple.
“Dean…”
“Missed you so fuckin’ much.” He mutters to himself, squeezing your hips and using his knee to nudge your thighs apart. “My pretty girl. Still fuckin’ wet for me, still fuckin’ perfect.”
You beam, and if you ask him about it later, he’ll say it’s just dirty talk. You’re not really his girl. You’re just fun.
But you’re not stupid. You mostly keep playing this game because it’s Dean’s, and it’s important to him, and you love him.
That was the first thing he told you not to do. There’s a long, long list of orders you’ve received from Dean—don’t open the door, don’t look for me, don’t pray to anyone but this specific angel, don’t mess with the safety measures—but this was at the top of the list.
“Don’t fall in love with me, sweetheart.” He’d said that first night. It had been teasing. You’d laughed, because he was just a handsome man at a bar. You weren’t there because you were looking to fall in love either.
“I’ll try.” You’d said back, and he’d smiled.
You really had tried.
The joke had turned into a warning. One that he gave over and over, after that visit where he started monster-proofing your place. You’d kept smiling, and telling him you’d try.
Every time he’d walked out the door, you’d reminded yourself that he might not come back. Every time he had come back, you’d repeated to yourself over and over—in the shower, sleeping next to him in ed, watching TV with his head in your lap—that you can’t fall in love with him.
He might never come back. He’ll never be able to love you back in a way that matters. He’ll never be able to give you a real life. He’s almost twice your age, he sleeps with a gun, he’s legally dead and a former FBI most wanted member, he’s been dead and tangled with demons and you still have to sit on the floor for twenty minutes to convince yourself to talk to your insurance company.
Dean’s a hero.
The hero doesn’t end up with the girl who’s barely ever left her village.
So you’d really tried. For your sake, you’d tried.
But he does this thing.
He leaves himself everywhere in your life. Hickeys on your neck that take a week to fade, a flannel he forgot on your bedroom floor, socks in the bathroom and half-eaten pie in the fridge. You downloaded songs he likes on your phone, because you spent a whole afternoon trying to convince each other to like your music. He made you a paper airplane that sits on the highest place of honor, the top of your fridge.
Once, after a long weekend where he’d fucked you on every surface of your apartment then lay on the floor counting fake stars with you until two in the morning, he’d tried to draw you.
He’d been drunk. You’d been laughing and moving the whole time, and for a man with such a steady hand, he’s not the best artist.
Your nose had been too small. Your lips had been too wide, and your hair had looked like pasta and your eyes had been crossed and he’d forgotten to give you ears. He’d groaned, and crumpled it up before crawling across the floor to lie in your lap.
“I don’t think of you like that.” He’d grumbled, nose grazing your inner thigh, and you’d laughed.
“I know, De.”
“You’re prettier, guess I just can’t draw.”
“No. You really can’t.” You’d leaned down, and kissed the top of his head. “I liked it anyway.”
He’d smiled—small, but for Dean that was practically beaming—and the tips of his ears had turned red as he hugged you tighter. A few drinks later, he’d passed out in your arms. You’d tried to draw him. Sketched with the pencil and paper left of the coffee table, then given up because his beauty didn’t seem willing to be captured in the paper.
So you’d taken a photo of him. Snorting below you, his cheeks smushed and mouth hanging open. Still unreasonably handsome.
In that single moment, all yours.
You’d smiled to yourself, and fallen asleep just that. With Dean all around you, hidden from the world on the floor of your apartment. He’d left in the morning. You’d kissed him, and made that same promise not to wait for him to come back.
But it had hit you, after a week of taking out your phone every few hours, and staring at the photo until your eyes were blurred with tears.
You always wait for him to return. You miss him so horribly when he leaves, it’s like part of you goes with him, and you’re just praying he’ll bring it back so you can feel alive again. So you can smile, and not worry about work politics or the asshole who lives down the hall and hits on you or friends who are always busy.
When Dean’s here, he’s the best thing in the world.
When he’s gone, he’s the best thing in the world, and the only thing you’re not allowed to have.
You’re not allowed to have him when he’s here either, though.
When he kisses you, or makes you breakfast, or pretends to watch TV while just staring at you the whole time. It’s a game you play alone.
Dean is yours, but you’re still not allowed to have him.
It’s not a fair game. You’re his, and he has you. You sit around waiting for him when he leaves, and pull him in every time he returns. There’s no amount of time that could pass, where you wouldn’t keep waiting for Dean, and it’s a rotten, torturous game.
He did warn you not to play it. He told you there was no winning.
But you keep playing. As hard a game as it is to lose, it’s a more fun game to play.
It’s easy to love Dean. So easy, you don’t know why you faked playing his game in the first place. He stopped warning you not to fall in love with him a while ago, but he seems to have his own game, where he lies to himself about you one day moving on without him.
“I got anyone to be worried about?” He asks at night, his arm tossed over your body, pinning you to the mattress.
You hum, playing with his fingers. “No.”
“No? Not even the- What’s his name, Hank?”
“Hank?”
“The asshole from your book club-“
“He’s not an asshole, De. He’s a nice man, and you know his name is Frank.”
“Hm.” Dean grunts, his hand closing over yours. “So not even Frank, huh?”
You sigh, twisting to look at him in the dark. Taking a deep breath, and scanning over his far too neutral expression. You wish he wouldn’t torture himself like this. You know it’s his game, but he doesn’t have to play it. He could just let you love him, even if it meant you spend the rest of your life staring at the door.
But he’s committed. He gives you a tight smile, and squeezes your hand.
“If he’s… Nice.” The words sound like they pain him. “And you like him. Y’know, you deserve the world, sweetheart-“
“Frank doesn’t have the world.”
Dean jaw twitches. “He could have it,” he mutters. “If he wants.”
His words are low. Low enough you’re pretty sure you’re not supposed to hear.
And you reach out, cradling Dean’s jaw in your hands. He slumps into you with a sigh, dragging you a little closer. Holding you against his chest, face pressing into your hair, voice strained.
“You should. If you like him-“
“I do. He’s nice.” You swallow, leaning back to hold Dean’s hooded gaze. “But I like him Dean. Not like like. He’s nice.”
Dean’s mouth twitches. “You said that already.”
“I mean it.”
“Uh huh.” He pauses. “I’m not nice.”
“Yes, you are.”
He laughs dryly. “Sweetheart, I got a grenade launcher in my trunk-“
“You got two grenade launchers in your trunk.” You press your knee up between his legs, and he hisses, rutting up against your thigh.
“Fuckin’- Woman-“
You giggle as he rolls you fully on your back, pinning your arms to the bed and looking down at you with a shine in his eyes. You smile freely up at him, because it’s so easy. Dean said don’t fall in love with me like it was a joke, but it’s the easiest thing you’ve ever done in your life.
He crashes down, kissing you deep and fervently, until your laughter is replaced by soft moans, and your legs are spread in invitation on the bed. Dean pulls up, licking his lips, and stares at you with something close to awe.
You just keep smiling at him. It always seems to make him soften within a few moments.
And it does. Like clockwork, Dean shakes his head, sighs, and leans down to kiss you a little more gently.
“You’re gonna kill me one day,” he murmurs against your lips, letting go of one hand so he can cradle your neck, and you drag your fingers over his chest with a hum.
“I’m not worried about it.” You whisper. “You’d come back to me.”
He nods.
The tiniest nod. You don’t think he even knows he does it. There, all the same.
And you know. Neither of you are going to win your games.
But you’re both still so bad at playing them.
“Do you like like me?” Dean asks an hour or so later, when your legs are shaking and little Dean is twitching against your thigh from being slightly overworked—though he never complains.
“Do I like like you?”
“Uh- Yeah?”
You laugh. Force yourself to roll over, and crawl forwards to your rightful place on Dean’s chest.
“C’mon, it’s not that dumb a question-“
“It is a little.”
“Well, if you don’t like like Frank-“
“I don’t sleep with Frank.” I don’t wait for Frank like the Earth waiting to get back to the Sun. “I sleep with you.”
“Eh.” He smirks, squeezing your ass. “Not a lotta sleepin’ going on- Shit-“
You squeeze his still softening dick, and he moans, rutting into your hand. You almost giggle again, but it falls into a gasp when he sits up suddenly—keeping you against his chest but flipping you around so your head drops on his shoulders and your ass pressed on his cock—and drags his hand between your thighs.
“You’re good at helpin’ me win arguments, baby.” He drawls in your ear, and you whine.
”Dean-“
“Mouthy girl.” He drags his mouth over your throat, and you shake in his arms. “You know what you do me, sweetheart. Not real fair to tease, when you know I’m barely keeping up.”
You try to squirm, to get just a little bit of friction, and Dean lands a firm slap on your pussy. Your whole body jolts, nails sinking into his arm, and he chuckles.
“I know, I know.” He’s cooing, taunting, and it only makes you ache for him more. “I’ll give you anything you want, baby. Just gotta say please.”
You nod, and manage to babble out the words. You didn’t know you were capable of having so many orgasms, until you met Dean. You know he’s the only one who can do this. Reduce you to a drooling, cockdrunk mess, and still have you crawling back on your knees for more.
It would be nice, if that’s all he does to you.
But he also makes you feel wanted. Desired. Loved, even if he never says the word allowed. Even if the idea is all but forbidden.
But you still wait for him at the edge of the mattress, while he brushes his teeth. Shifting restlessly until he comes out of the bathroom, and smiles at you.
Dean crosses the room, and takes your face between his hands. Stares at you for a moment—always fondly, always like he’s not sure you’re real—then leans down to kiss you. Slow, like you have all the time in world.
Like he won’t be gone in the morning.
“I like like you.” You whisper, still a secret with no one else around to hear it.
Dean smiles. Squeezes his hold on the back of your neck.
“Thank you, baby.”
You nod, curling your fingers on the fabric of his shirt. If you get him to take it off, you’ll be able to hide it before he goes in the morning, and you can wear it until it stops smelling like him.
It might not even take tricking him. He’d just let you have it, if you asked. You know he doesn’t want to go either, but he has to. And he’s going to tell you again, not to wait for him. And you’re going to agree, and you’re both going to know it’s a lie.
He’ll walk out the door. Look back once, before forcing himself down the hall.
You’ll watch until he’s out of sight. Run to the window, to wave at him as he pulls out of the parking lot. Watch until the Impala is out of sight, too.
The world with get a little duller. A little more painful.
And then you’ll count down every second, until you see him again.
Dean had been a goner the first time he saw Her.
He remembers the moment clearly. How the world had slowed and he’d been sure he’d just been drinking too much, because he’d seen a lot of beautiful women but this one set off a bomb in his brain, wiping out everything but just the sight of Her. He remembers how She’d come up to him, and started talking with this voice that might’ve been made of every good song in the world. How She’d talked damn circles around him, and how She’d been young enough he felt a little like a perv, but then She’d said her name and it became the only thing he’d ever have to know again.
Dean remembers thanking Sammy for getting annoyed at Dean mark-induced anger, and telling him to go out and do something safe and productive. Thanking the Mark, for agreeing in the moment that drinking was a good thing to do. Thanking the vamp nest that had settled on the edge of the town, for bringing him here in the first place.
Remembers how She’d smiled in the light of the bar, how he’d tried to buy her a drink and she’d teased him about trying to get in Her pants, how they hadn’t even fully made it to the car before he’d been rubbing over Her underwear, and had barely been on the road for five minutes before She’d been taking him in her mouth.
But mostly, Dean remembers waking up the next morning, and feeling something dangerous blooming in his chest.
Peace.
He’d reached over the mattress, traced his thumb over Her cheek as she slept, and he’d felt like the world was more than just blood and loss and another day to get through that turned into a night to survive. The Mark hadn’t been burning in his blood and demanding more, more, more. He’d just been in this soft bed, with a pretty woman he’d spent the night giving good things to, watching the morning light shine over Her face.
Dean hadn’t wanted to get up. He hadn’t been able to make himself, because every time he shifted, She’d make this sad little sound and it echoed in his damn chest.
So he’d just stayed, until he could explain that he had to go. She was so perfect, She at least deserved to think he wasn’t running out after taking advantage of her.
But then he’d looked Her in the eyes, and asked if she wanted to get breakfast. And She’d smiled—it had too quickly became the sun for him, the center of everything, what moved him and offered him every bit of life—and he’d been more than gone.
He and Sammy had cleared out the vamp nest. She’d gotten caught in the middle, Dean had gotten Her out—the Mark roaring louder than usual, and Dean not bothering to resist it at all—and he’d cleaned Her up after. Stayed an extra day to make sure She was on her feet.
Not for any selfish reasons. Like wanting to cling to the strange peace for a little longer. Like taking advantage of Her clearly growing attachment to him, and letting himself indulge the sweetest thing he’d. ever found before he ripped it out of his hands.
He’d explained everything, in the desperate hope that She’d help him leave. That She’d do what Cassie and Lisa had done, and told him they wanted nothing to do with that life.
But She’d just… Understood. Gotten all pouty and sad-eyed, when he’d dragged himself out the door. Smiled at him, and waved goodbye.
And Dean didn’t count himself a good man. He had blood on his hands and a lot of wounds that didn’t seem to bother to heal. Hell, back then he’d been bearing the damn Mark of Cain, been made of all his worse thoughts and urges. But he’d always thought he’d made up for it by not being a douchebag. Maybe he had a body count so large he lost track, and maybe he lied and tricked and fought dirty, but he respected food workers. He tipped. He never touched a lady unless She wanted it, and he never judged—most of—the shit he heard.
He also kept upfront about what he wanted. He’d given Her the usual speech, before they’d started stumbling out of the bar laughing like teenagers.
One night.
He could give Her everything she ever wanted, for one night.
She’d agreed. He’d made his don’t fall in love joke, but it had sounded flat to his ears.
Dean thinks he might’ve known, even then.
He certainly knows now.
“You remember what you said to me?” He asked last time, sitting at Her feet while she did something with string and his favorite flannel that made it look new again. “That first night?”
“What I said to you?” She’d frowned. “No? Am I supposed to?”
“Nah. Just wonderin’.” He’d turned his cheek, pressing it into Her knee.
She looked almost delicate, in this kind of light. Like a mist that was going to blow away with the wrong wind. A dream Dean might forget if he dared to wake up, a trick of the light that would vanish if he blinked. He could’ve been happy there for the rest of his damn life. At Her feet, watching her softer hands work, right where he could keep Her safe and adored for the rest of his sorry life.
She’d paused Her work on his flannel. Smiled down at him, running Her fingers through his hair. Dean had felt like a damn dog, and turned into the touch.
“What did I say?” She’d asked softly, and he should’ve guessed She would. She likes to know everything.
He still doesn’t understand, how She can know him and still open the door every time.
“Was it stupid?” She asked softly, and Dean had chuckled. She couldn’t be stupid if She tried.
“Nah.”
“Well, what-“
“You told me I had big shoulders.”
She’d stared at him for a second. Does that thing he loves, where She sorta blinks and gapes and flushes, like just a few words from his dumb mouth are capable of short-circuiting Her quick brain.
Dean had leaned up and cupped Her jaw to close her mouth. She’d swatted his hands away with a scowl, and he’d laughed.
“Fuck off, I did not say that-“
“Swear you did.” He’d kissed the back of Her hand, because it makes him feel more like a gentleman than the ass who just shows up and crashes in Her bed. “You just sat down and started objectifying me, was pretty freakin’ rude-“
“Shut up.” She’d said with a smile. “You love being my object.”
Dean had chuckled and pushed up into a kiss.
She had no damn idea.
And when She finally shoved him gently away, reminding Dean that She had to finish Her work on his flannel, he’d gone back to watching at Her feet. She stitched that thing up like it had never been worn in the first place. Even gotten those complex seams that used to make him declare a shirt as good as dead. Gave him new buttons, too. Like he deserved something so small and important.
Dean had wondered, as he watched Her. Wondered if he should start ripping up flannels, so he had a better excuse to come back. If maybe She’d like a life in the bunker, stitching flannels and talking to him forever, and if She’d ever forgive him for daring to think something so selfish.
He’d wondered if She knew. That She stitches him up like that flannel, every time She let him back into her arms.
And if Dean were a stronger, worse man, he’d just let himself take Her. Sweep Her fully of her feet with the love confession he’s been rehearsing in the shower and on longer drives, for damn near two years. The one that goes I can’t offer you money. Or a real house. Or healthcare, or children, or even really damn pets. I can’t promise you I’ll come home, every time I walk out the house, and I can’t promise there ain’t always gonna be a target on your back just for holding my hand.
But I can promise I’ll protect you. And love you. And take care of you until someone shoots off my hands, cause even if they shoot off my head I’m gonna figure out how to keep my body working to take care of you.
In his imagination, She’d make a face and whisper like a chicken?
And Dean would laugh, and smile at Her because he remembered how to, when She was around.
Yeah. A chicken, sweetheart. I’ll be your chicken. And I’ll damn try, all the time, to come back. I’ll try to give you everything you want that I got, and if I don’t got it, I’ll figure out a way to make it.
Please.
His confession always ended with please, because even in Dean’s fantasies he can’t work out a world where She says yes.
There are moments, where She looks at him for a long enough moment that the words work their way to his mouth. The sit on the tip of his tongue like a sour candy he needs to spit out. He almost says it, then chokes it back down.
There are a lot of moments, where he almost tells Her.
Sometimes it’s only nights like these, that stop him.
He had a nightmare again. It’s a reoccurring one, now.
She gets hurt. It started more abstract, but it’s narrowed down to one, horrible scenario.
Dean wakes up in Her apartment, and she’s gone. He calls Her name, tears the place up, tears the town up, and She’s still nowhere to be found.
Then he turns, and She’s there. And the world feels peaceful again. He runs towards Her, reaching to pull her back into his arms.
And She dies.
Dean touched Her, and she just… dies.
He woke up in a cold sweat, fighting the pillows and reaching for his gun. It took him a minute to realize it wasn’t real. Another three to calm down, after he looked at Her side of the bed and realized she wasn’t there.
Because he was in his room. At the bunker.
The place he’d worked so hard to keep Her away from.
But now he’s just lying here. Staring at the ceiling and holding the sheets on Her side of the bed. Trying to close his eyes, but it’s damn impossible when he does and just sees her lifeless body again.
He fumbles in the dark and grabs his wallet. Stares at Her drawing for an hour, then tries to lie back down again.
She’s fine. She has to be fine.
He closes his eyes by accident. Shoots right up, and makes for his pants and shoes.
“Where’re you going?” Sam asks when Dean storms past him, barely looking up from his book.
“Out.” Dean grunts, because it’s not worth even trying to lie to Sam anymore.
He’s not even that good at lying to himself.
Because he tries to protect Her from afar. He swears up and down that he won’t go back to Her, won’t keep stealing Her time and affection, won’t tempt himself with something he can never have. With a love he’s never going to be able to hold.
But he has to see Her. Now. Just to be sure that she’s safe.
So Dean goes.
It’s three in the morning, when you hear the knock. You wouldn’t have gotten up to answer it, if you hadn’t recognized it as Dean’s. He knocks the same way every time. Sometimes you mimic it on the table, to torture yourself with the idea of him being there.
And he pops up whenever he pops up. You’ve long stopped trying to track his appearances, but you know he doesn’t show up on your doorstep at the start of the week, and he doesn’t show up in the middle of the night.
It’s a Tuesday. It’s been Tuesday, for three hours.
You walk a little faster, rubbing your eyes and grabbing the baseball bat he insists you keep in the closet. If it is your Dean, he might be in danger. If it’s not, you’re about to bash someone’s brains in and sprint for the hills.
The knock repeats, a little louder than last time. You hear him call your name through the door, and it certainly sounds like Dean. When you lean up to look through the peephole, it looks like Dean.
He’s swaying in the hall, eyes glossy and a little bloodshot. There’s a strangely relaxed look on his face, and sighs heavily when you still don’t open the door, stumbling forward to drop his brow against the wood.
“I know you’re in there.” He mumbles, hand reaching up to trace the door. “Heard you walkin’ around. If you got someone in there, I can just sit on the couch or somethin’. Won’t even talk, just wanted to…”
He sighs heavily, and your chest aches. Your fingers move to the knob, begging you to just remove the barrier between you, but something’s twisting in your gut. You’ve never seen him act like this. Never seen him look so tired and desperate, and that doesn’t seem like a monster thing, but he had told you to be careful-
“I was thinkin’ about you.” He mumbles. “Missed you. Always missin’ you all the time, and- I dunno. Had a dream, it’s kinda fuckin’ stupid, but- Can you cough for me, baby? Need to hear that you’re alright, then I’ll go.” He looks up, almost staring at you through the peephole, and you swallow. Your hand closes around the doorknob, the opposite one slipping on the bat, and-
You wait a little too long to respond. Dean sighs heavily, taking a large step back and shoving his hands into his pockets. The step alone takes a second for him to recover from, his whole body swaying from the motion. You let the bat fall from your hand, because you need both hands to reach for him, but-
“Never mind.” He says, shaking his head. “’m gonna go. Sleep well, baby. Love you.”
You almost kick the door off its hinges, his words like ice water being doused over your head.
Love.
He said he- He said-
Dean’s face splits into a wide, boyish grin the moment he sees you. He says your name, barreling forward, and pulls you into his arms. He’s warm, holding onto you tight enough you’re being picked up off your feet. You hug him back, still dazed, the world moving too fast.
Love. He said love. He said-
He mumbles your name, pressing his face into your neck, and you brush your fingers through his hair lightly. He’s still made of muscle and soft strength, but something about it feels delicate. He’s not really saying anything, which isn’t Dean at all. He’s still swaying back and forth, and he smells like the same warm cologne and full, deep Dean smell he’s always had, but there’s also-
Liquor. He smells like whiskey and beer.
He’s drunk.
You sigh. The swaying and strangeness. For whatever reason, Dean’s just wasted, and he chose to come to you.
It’s not something you can allow yourself to read into right now. That can happen in the morning, when he’s safe and sobered up, and you can try to read his reaction to waking up in your apartment. For now you just guide him backwards inside—you try to pull away, but he makes a sound like a kicked puppy and holds you tighter—and slowly coax him out of his shoes and jacket.
“Did you drive here?” You ask softly as you work the jacket off his shoulders, and he nods.
“Mhm. You’re warm.”
You swallow. “Thank you. Dean, baby, you shouldn’t drive drunk-“
“‘M not drunk-“
“You really are-“
“Only had like- Five drinks. Four.” He leans back, scrunching his face a little too adorably. “How many are in the big pack thingys?”
“How many… Beers?”
He shrugs, fingers reaching up to play with your hair. “Uh huh. We can go count the bottles. I broke one when a freakin’ bird started shoutin’ at me, but the others. Got ‘em still.”
“You- Dean.“ You lean back, grabbing his face between your hands. He looks at you with a bright, hopeful adoration, and it only makes your chest ache more.
He says your name, leaning forward with a grin—a full, wide smile you’ve never seen on his face—and you take a deep breath.
“Did you drink them, then drive? Or drive, then-“
“I drove ‘em then drank.” He shrugs. “‘M not that stupid. Not tryin’ to die before I can see you.” He leans down, pressing his brow against yours. “You’re pretty.”
You flush. “Thank you. I- I didn’t think you were gonna, but- Shit-“ He presses further over you, making you stumble back slightly.
Some of Dean’s usual instinct seems to kick in as you fall. He wraps his arm tightly around your back, and pulls you up before falling to the couch, forcing you to straddle his lap.
He grins up at you, still open and joyful, and sinks into the cushions so easily.
“I ain’t drunk.”
You sigh. “Dean-“
“‘m not. You’re pretty.”
“You’ve said that twice now.”
“Doesn’t make it less true. You’re so hot, it’s freakin’ crazy.” He drops his face into your chest, like it’s physically paining him to look at you. “You don’t get it, sweetheart. I haven’t even been able to watch porn anymore ‘cause of you. ’S not the same.”
You flush, opening and closing your mouth in a pointless attempt to try and find a way to respond to that.
There really isn’t one. Not with the word love still ringing in your head like a church bell.
You settle for a soft. “Oh.”
Dean just hums, and when you gently guide his head back, his eyes are heavy and a little dopey. He’s still smiling at you, even as they droop. You run your fingers through his hair and he sighs happily.
“You’re okay.” He murmurs, almost to himself. It cleaves your heart in half.
“Yeah. I’m okay.” You smile softly. “You’re drunk.”
“Nah-“
“You had six beers, my love.” You let yourself call him that. If he said it, you can too, and he doesn’t even really seem to notice at all.
He just makes another like face and shakes his head. “No, I had the pack-“
“Yeah.” Your smile grows. “That’s six.”
“Hm.” He pauses, clearly thinking a little too hard about this. “Six. Siiiix. Sex.” He grins at you. “We should have sex-“
“No.” You place a hand flat on his chest, giving him a stern look. “You’re drunk, buddy. No sex.”
He pouts for a second, staring down at his shoes, then sighs. “Fine.”
You giggle at his complete dejection, tracing your hands over the planes of his chest. His breath starts to pick up, fingers squeezing on your hips, and it might be rude to tease him like this but it’s so fun. Especially when he leans a little bit up like he’s going to try and take you, but then manages to pull himself back and flops down sadly into the cushions.
“Can we have sex in the morning please?” He asks hopefully, and you hum.
“We’ll see.”
That just makes him pout more. “Why. If you don’t wanna, just tell me and I’ll be super cool about it-“
“You’re begging me right now,” you tease, and he makes a sour expression.
“‘M not begging.”
“You said please-“
“It’s bein’ polite. And,” he leans up, until his handsome, drunken face is only inches from yours. “I really wanna have sex with you.”
“I know.” You whisper, eyes wide on his.
And you shouldn’t ask. You shouldn’t. He’s drunk, he doesn’t know what he’s saying, he might not mean any of this at all.
But-
“Why?” You say, so quiet you almost can’t hear it yourself.
He frowns. “Huh?”
“Why do you wanna have sex with me? We-“ You swallow. “We’ve done it a lot before. In almost all the positions.” You smile weakly. “You gotta be tired of me by now.”
Dean blinks at you. Like he doesn’t even understand what you’re saying. “Yeah, but… I love you.”
That’s what you wanted to hear. What you were fishing for.
It still knocks all the air out of your lungs when you hear it. In full, plainly like he can’t fathom that there would ever be another answer, hanging in the silence of your living room as you just stare at Dean’s open face.
He said it. He said it. You’re breathing too fast, your nails sinking into his shoulders like you can cling to the confession, like you’re trying to swallow it down before he can take it back.
But Dean just keeps blinking up at you, almost innocently adoring.
He’s so drunk.
This isn’t about you. It’s about Dean. About forcing yourself to smile and kiss him gently, before standing up and guiding him into the shower. Checking him for injuries before getting him changed. Brushing his teeth then herding him into bed.
Some foolish part of you thought you’d be able to go turn off the living room light while he waited. You don’t even get off the bed before Dean’s arms are around your waist, and you’re being yanked back down.
“Don’t go.” He mumbles against the back of your neck, and you sigh.
“Dean-“
“Please.”
You swallow, then nod. Curl fully back, rubbing his forearms around you until his breathing starts to steady, his body slowly going limp.
“Never want you to go.” He says suddenly, right before you think he’s about to fall asleep. His voice is raw and tired.
Tears sting at your eyes. “I’m still here, Dean. Right here.” You squeeze his arm, and he sighs.
“Yeah, but it’s gonna be gone.” He sighs. “Wish I could stay. Or take you with me, but… Can’t.”
“You could.” You whisper, twisting to watch him in the dark. “I- I’d go.”
He just stares at you for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse.
“You shouldn’t.”
“I would.”
His throat bobs. For a second, there’s something new shining his eyes. It’s clearer than everything else. Burning right into you with his attention, his hands a little tighter on your body.
“I keep a drawing of you in my wallet.” He rasps, and your heart does a little skip.
“I have a folder of your photos on my phone. I- I show them to my friends.” You flush. “They think I made you up.”
Dean’s mouth twitches. He’s starting to sound like himself again. “Did you?”
“Make you up?” You whisper.
He nods.
“I don’t know. I- I hope not.”
“I hope I didn’t make you up either.” He traces his hand down your arm, never breaking your gaze.
You swallow. “I feel real.”
He hums. “That’s good. Would suck pretty bad if you weren’t.”
You laugh softly, and Dean watches you like you’re the most important thing he’s ever going to see. You smile at him. He leans a little closer.
“Sometimes I just stand outside.” He rasps. “If I got a night. I’ll drive up here and just… Sit in the fuckin’ parking lot.”
“I watched a documentary about you.” You offer. “It called you a crazy serial killer.”
His mouth twitches. “I am-“
“I left it a one-star review.” You raise your voice over his. “And I- I still opened the door.”
“You… You did.” He mutters. “Every single time.”
“Yeah. I did.”
For a second, you just stare at each other. Time doesn’t feel like it’s moving. You don’t want it to.
“When you sit in the parking lot.” You say softly. “Why don’t you come inside?”
He chuckles, rolling onto his back. “Cause I’m gonna do something stupid. Like this, and sayin’ that I-“
He cuts himself off, hand curling on his chest. You push up on your elbows, hanging over him, and he stares at you with a clear helplessness.
Dean mutters your name, clearly begging you not to say it.
But he said it first. And you need to know. If you’re allowed to stop playing games now.
If you’re allowed to have him.
“You love me?” You finish for him, and Dean sighs.
“I- Don’t say that, sweetheart-“
“You said it-“
“I was drunk.” He mutters. He won’t look at you anymore. “I was drunk and talkin’ stupid and- Just don’t. Please.”
You swallow, your heart caught in your throat. You could swallow it, and hope you digest it this time. That it finally passes through you, and the game is done like that.
But you don’t want to.
Dean is looking at you like he expects you to kick him out. Like he’s bracing for you to spit venom and hit his chest and curse his name. He’s almost shrinking away from you, one hand clinging to your wrist even as he makes a face like his heart is already breaking.
You won’t let it. Not here. Not when him breaking would break you too.
So you lie down next to him. Move your hand to tangle in his, your shoulders pressed together, Dean’s breathing shallow as he turns to watch you in the dark.
You look at him, and smile. Let all your love for him shine in it, squeezing his hand once.
He holds yours tighter. Holds onto it for dear life.
Says your name, and this. This is begging. Maybe for you to stop, or go, or just do the simple thing and kick him out.
You won’t. Not now. When he’s there, and maybe yours, and- And-
You could have him.
In all his broken, drunken and exhausted beauty, you can have Dean.
“What would you say?” You murmur, and his lips press in a tight line.
“I- I dunno-“
“Can I tell you what I would say? If- If you’d ever asked?”
Dean swallows, but nods. You smile again. It’s so easy, when you’re looking at him.
“I’d tell you I love you.” You whisper. Dean’s grip tightens. “That I’ve been in love with you for- Pretty much the whole time. That I hate watching you leave, and I hate when you pretend like you don’t care if I’m dating, and I hate when you remind me that you might not come back, because I need you. I need you to come back. Every- Every time you go-“ You cut yourself off, your voice starting to ache. “Every time you leave me I hate you. But I love you so much it doesn’t matter. I- I like loving you so much more than I hate missing you. Dean, I-“
He says your name, words tight and choked, and you shake your head.
“I love you. I love you so, so much, I’m never gonna-“ You take long unsteady breath. “You just leave me here. And I wait. Because I love you.”
And Dean just stares at you. Holds your hand and stares at you, his face pale and flushed all at the same time.
“No.” He finally mutters. He still doesn’t let go of your hand. “Sweetheart, that’s- You love the idea of me, you don’t love the real thing-“
You snort dryly. “The real you?”
“Yeah.” He snaps, sitting up suddenly. “The real me. I’m not just some fuckin’- Sex guy who drops in, fucks you, then runs off to a day job. I kill people, baby. I got a body count bigger than any documentary is gonna tell you, I got people who hunt me down for what I’ve done, there ain’t anyone in my life because everyone who was there is fuckin’ dead, and I-“ He shakes his head, starting to pull back. “I’m not lettin’ that happen to you. No. No way in hell-“
“Why?” You demand, and your voice isn’t harsh or even that loud, but it cuts Dean off completely. “Why don’t you want it to happen to me?”
He makes a sour expression. “Because.”
“Because?”
“Yeah. ’S what I said-“
“Is it because you love me?”
Dean scowls. “That doesn’t matter-“
“It matters to me-“
“‘Cause you think you’re in love with me.” He spits. He’s still holding your hand. “And I’m tellin’ you, you’re not, so it doesn’t matter-“
“I am in love with you.” You sit up, making your voice firmer. Unwavering. “And I know you, Dean. I’m not just some girl who got the wrong idea about something, I know you. You’ve told me everything, even the ugly shit, and I kept opening the door.” You glare at him, and he freezes, staring at you with wide-eyes. “I sit with you after all your nightmares, I let you bring a gun into my house, I look you up on the news every day because I am terrified you’re going to die and come back all wrong or whatever, and I’m going have to figure out how to be strong enough not to open the door.”
Dean’s mouth falls a little bit open, and you glare at him, far from done.
“Because I would. I’d let you in with those creepy black eyes and I don’t even think I’d regret it. Because I love you.”
Dean makes a strangled sound, and you poke his chest.
“You show up covered in blood and talking crazy about angels and demons, you give me fuckin’ gun and booby trap my apartment and make me do codewords, and I let you in. I know who you are, Dean Winchester. I know exactly who you are.”
He catches your hand on his chest, expression fully broken, and pleads your name. You curl your fingers on his chest and hold his hand.
“You’re a good man.” Your voice turns soft, and he cringes like you hit him. “You’re a good man, Dean. I don’t love you because of the sex, even if the sex is great.” You laugh softly.
Dean looks like he tries to laugh, but it comes out more in a sound like a wounded animal. Silent tears are streaming down his face, and you sigh.
Reach up to wipe them away, and let Dean bow into your touch. His eyes are hooded, and trapped on yours.
You offer him a small smile.
“I love you because you make me happy.” You say. “I love you because you keep trying to protect me, even when it hurts you. I love you because when I tried to hit on you at a bar by saying you had big shoulders, you gave me pointers about how to pick other guys up, then asked if you could be the first I try them on. I love you because when I laughed, you apologized and started just talking to me. And we talked for so long, and you called me pretty, and I- I’d been called that before, but-“ You give him a sad smile, tears staining your own cheeks. “You didn’t want anything. You just- You just said it because you wanted me to know, and it felt good to be known.”
You shift toward, rising on your knees to press your brow to his.
“I like you.” You whisper. “Like like you. I like like knowing you. And I like like loving you. I- Never used those moves on anyone else.” You giggle softly, tears still falling. “They worked once really well. And I don’t want to try them again. I kind of really love what I have.”
Dean blinks at you slowly. His tongue darts over his lips, eyes flicking down to your own, breath still ragged. If he needs to kiss you, you’ll let him.
But instead, he just starts to cry.
Dean folds over you, body shaking, and cries. It starts muffled and restrained—like he’s still trying to shove it back down—but you rub his back and hold him close, and he slowly falls apart.
You move slowly, so that you’re lying against the headboard and Dean is in your lap. You keep him gently in your arms, kissing the top of his head every few moments and running your hands soothingly over his shoulders, his back, through his soft hair. Slowly, the choked sounds turn to heavy breaths, and he eases himself down.
His face presses into your stomach as his chest rises and falls. You wait, cradling the back of his neck and humming to yourself softly. Eventually Dean turns to look up at you, eyes still red, and lets out a heavy sigh.
“I- I do.” He says, voice rough, and you just smile.
“I know.”
He heaves, crawling a little up your body. “I mean it, baby, I do-“
“Dean.” You cup his face, and he freezes. “I know.”
His mouth twitches. You just smile in return. Dean grabs your hand, turning to press a kiss to your wrist. His eyes shine when you giggle, tension releasing from his shoulders.
He collapses over your body with a heavy sigh.
“I’m gonna feel like shit in the morning.” He grumbles, and you laugh.
“It’s six, De. Basically is the morning.”
“Great. I feel like shit now.”
“You could go to sleep. That might help.”
Dean hums skeptically. “Are you gonna sleep.”
“No.” The whole night still has you too wound up. “Not tired.”
“Hm.” He pushes up over you, elbows braced on either side of your head, pinning you to the mattress.
His nose bumps yours, and your eyes widen, hands flying to his chest.
“I could help with that.” He murmurs, and you swallow.
“Dean-“
“I got a clear head.” He kisses the corner of your mouth gently. “Swear. I’ll do the alphabet backwards if you wanna hear it, but if I’m bein’ honest I can’t do that front or back-“
You tug him down for a full, deep kiss. It’s slow. Lazy. His tongue traces your lips and you open with a soft moan, legs spreading as Dean’s mouth works you up quickly.
But still, you gently push him back. He goes easily, raising his brows, and you flush. Glance down to his shirt, where your fingers have started to play with the soft fabric.
“Are you…” Your eyes dart back up to his. “Are you gonna stay? In the morning?”
Dean nods, no uncertainty in his voice. “Yeah.“ He grabs your hands, pulling them up to kiss your knuckles. “I’m gonna stay until you kick me out, alright. Might come and go, but- You can come if you want. An if you don’t, I got a phone, and my brother’s phone, and a laptop that I can steal-“
“Dean-“
“Point is I’m yours.” He says quickly, sounding a little frustrated with himself. “I stay until you kick me out.”
“I won’t.” You say quickly, and Dean grins.
Truly, fully grins.
“Guess I’m gonna be here a long time, then.”
“Yeah. Guess you are.”
His grin impossibly widens, eyes darting down to your body. “And…”
You laugh. “We can have sex in the morning.”
Dean collapses back over you with a dramatic groan of relief. “Thank god. And- After that, too?”
You giggle, kissing the top of his head, and he curls further into your body. Looks at you like you’re more than an angel, his voice still teasing, but also just a little more.
Filled with affection, and hope, and love.
He’s yours to love.
“Yeah.” You say, and Dean beams. “We can do whatever you want.”
✦End note: thank you for reading i don't even have a joke for this one i really hope you liked it i hope it wasn't butt thank you.✦ ✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦ ✦Buy me a coffee!☕️✦ ✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦ ✦divider by @/cafekitsune✦
