Room 286. [D.W.]
summary: after a ghost hunt gone wrong, which included you putting yourself on the line, dean seems to be avoiding you
pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader
word count: 3.6k
content: ANGST(ofc), friends to lovers, reader is the definition of people's pleaser, dean is SO soft for her it hurts, sam's a girl's girl, negative thoughts, self doubt, panic attack, hurt-comfort
a/n: hiii guys, i'm soo sorry for not updating for such a long time, uni has not been kind to me, but i'm back and i'll try to be a bit more consistent with this:) idk how to feel about this, but i really hope you enjoy itt!! Also, i'd like to dedicate this to this sweet angel, @possible-hopefull
The car ride back was silent.
Eerily. Disquieting and unsettling, muddling your brain with its haziness, leaving an array of disorganised thoughts in its wake.
You were sitting in the backseat this time–unusual–but somehow it was the least abnormal thing happening at the moment.
Sam was sitting in the passenger’s seat. Over the top of the seats that separated you, you could see him clutching his right wrist with his left hand against his chest, rubbing soothing circles over his pulse.
Dean. Well, Dean was barely injured. So he said, with a large bleeding gash across his forehead.
He was angry–fuming, even. Fingers coiled around the steering wheel, tight, leaving no room for circulation, whiteness slowly infiltrating the skin around his knuckles. His eyes were glued to the empty road ahead, lips pursed, face straight. And you couldn’t blame him. After all, it was your fault.
You decided to rush in without thinking twice to save the kid despite Dean’s protests.
You decided to push Sammy aside when the ghost came charging at him, knocking him hard onto the ground.
You decided to burn the last piece of the spirit’s remains, which led to it aiming to attack you, which then led to Dean coming to protect you, which, ultimately, led to where you were right at that moment–in the backseat, alone. Body aching, mind racing.
You wrapped your hands around your aching abdomen, feeling a bruise start to form on its side. You shut your eyes, head lolling back against the leather seats, trying to contain the pain as you took in small aching breaths, trying to steady yourself. The blood trickling down your forehead didn’t exactly help your case, staining your eyelid and cheek with its deep red pigment. You gave up trying to wipe it off, letting it seep out of the laceration, laggard but deliberately, trailing down your face in a specific pattern.
The air in the car was polluted, contaminated with displeasure and dejection. You knew Dean was mad, infuriated by what you did, it was written all over his face. Sam wasn’t as mad, you hoped, but he wasn’t exactly happy, eyes remaining glued to the rain-stained window ever since he sat in it.
And you, you’ve never felt worse. You felt bad, guilt gnawing at you, hurting even more than the wounds that marked your body. And that insatiable need to please everyone was eating away at you, as well, tearing you up, piece by piece, rotting you from the inside out, its impact bleeding into your expressions.
You didn’t mean to get anyone hurt, you didn’t want to, especially not them. What you did was impulsive–detrimental to everyone around, you knew that. But you couldn’t help it. That little girl was about to get hurt, and you couldn’t just stand by and watch the spirit get to her when you could have done something to save her. And you did.
“Hey, you okay?”
Your eyes snapped open. “Hmm?” You looked around, just noticing that the car was at a stop, the bright white light of the motel streaming through the dark interior of the Impala–and that Dean was nowhere to be seen.
Sam eyed you up and down, an uneasy expression slowly forming. “How’re you feeling?”
You sat up straighter, unwrapping your arms from your torso as you pushed yourself up on the heels of your palms, digging them into the leather of the seats. “I’m fine,” you nodded, voice coming out quieter and hoarser than you had expected.
“I’m fine,” you repeated, a little louder this time, not exactly sure who you were trying to convince, “H-how about you?”
Sam’s eyebrows immediately furrowed as he heard your stutter, before realisation dawned upon him. He sighed, scooting closer so he faced you better from his seat. He wasn’t clutching his limp wrist anymore, instead, you found it lying at an odd angle on his lap.
“I’m not mad at you, Y/N. Not at all,” He shook his head. “You did what you thought was right, and saved us all. I don’t blame you. I would have done the same thing if I were in your position.”
Your eyes drifted to the empty driver’s seat in front of you. Despite him not even being present in the car, you still felt it–the anger, the tension.
“Dean’s…not mad.” Sam started slowly, reading your thoughts. “He’s just frazzled. He worries a lot, you know that. And after all we’ve been through together, all he’s gotten is just more paranoid.”
“But–”
“I don’t blame you. And he's just being Dean. It’s alright–”
Sam’s phone buzzed. You knew who it was.
Sam’s eyes drifted from you to the screen and back at you, a knowing look crossing his eyes when he met your worried ones.
“Hey, it’s gonna be fine. Don’t worry about it. Plus, he could never stay mad at his sweetheart for more than a minute,” Sam said, giving an encouraging smile. “C’mon,” he called, hopping out of the car.
“I’m not his sweetheart. And I’m really tired. Maybe I should just sleep in here. It’s cosy–”
“C’mon, Y/N,” Sam calls as he slams the door shut.
“I’m good–”
“Not really giving you an option here!”
You groaned but listened anyway. You grabbed your duffle bag and got out of the car, slowly, trying to buy yourself as much time as possible before you had to deal with Dean’s wrath. You walked by Sam’s side, but as you got closer to the building, to your room, your steps slowed, and somehow moved so you were right behind Sam–completely covered, completely protected.
When Sam noticed this–and it didn’t take him long–he immediately grabbed you by the shoulder and put you in front of him, not allowing you to walk behind him, especially in the dark, where he couldn’t see you and ensure your safety.
You reached the room, Room 286, the room you’ve been dreading to see. Sam reaches over, knocking the dilapidated door–three sharp raps, as always. You held your breath, not daring to even breathe. The door groaned open.
Dean stood there, staying for a beat, but his eyes never even glanced your way. You swore you saw him shake his head a little, like he was trying to keep himself levelled, before heading straight for the bathroom and locking it shut.
Fuck.
You immediately turned to Sam, giving him an ‘I told you so’ look.
A sheepish look crossed his face as he smiled. “At least he let us in?”
“Yeah, ‘cause of you. If it were just me, I wouldn’t have even made it to the car,” you rolled your eyes.
“Are we talking about the same Dean? Dean Winchester? My brother?”
You opened your mouth to defend yourself but he interrupted you. “The same guy who needs to be convinced to let you go anywhere alone. The same guy who’s ready to punch the living daylights out of anyone who so much so even glances at you the wrong way? The same guy who folds like a lawn chair whenever you open your mouth? That Dean?”
Your mouth gaped open. “You’re exaggerating.”
“You’re clueless.”
You glared at Sam, not accepting the way he viewed your relationship with Dean, because it wasn’t like that. That, and that you weren’t exactly sure how to reply to that. Not wanting to back down and look stupid in front of him, you stayed silent–hoping all the words you wished to say came forward through your gaze, which you weren’t exactly sure what it was supposed to be either.
“I’m going to bed,” you muttered, turning around, kicking off your caked boots, and walking deeper into the room. You barely made it halfway into the room when you paused, duffle bag still loosely hanging on your shoulder, and you eyed the beds.
There were two beds–both singles, but only one had an extra pillow, and it had Dean’s bag on it.
There were always two beds, never one, never three, but two. Usually, you would share the bed with Dean, seeing as Sam could barely have enough space to sleep in the beds given by himself, let alone with another person, an adult woman at that. To you, it was always cramped, but it was cosy–somehow giving you a sense of placidity, especially after a tough case.
In other times, you would have stripped down to a tank top and shorts and jumped the bed the second you got the opportunity to. This time, you hesitated–for a couple of reasons:
You were dirty, covered head to toe in gunk and blood.
You were afraid that Dean was going to be pissed off if he found you lying on his bed.
You really wanted to shower, to clean everything up so Dean wouldn’t be disgusted to sleep next to you (although he has before).
Dean.
Was Dean mentioned?
You turned to ask Sam for his opinion, but you were too late. The man was already sprawled out on the bed–broken wrist and all–snoring away.
You sighed, going up to him. You tugged off his flannel for him, leaving him in a faded t-shirt and jeans, and rolled him over so he was sleeping in a more comfortable position. You folded the shirt up and left it on the night stand.
When you turned around, you jumped back a little when you found Dean staring at you, standing right in front of the bathroom with a still hand holding a towel over his wet hair. Your eyes drifted to the gash that was on his forehead. It had stopped bleeding, now looking red and irritated. You had a strong urge to go over to take care of it.
And him.
He didn’t look away, like he physically couldn’t, eyes stuck on you like the blood crusted under your nails. The towel in his hair didn’t even move, stuck motionless under his grip. You weren’t even sure if he realises it, the way he was looking at you; even all away from the other side of the room, you could smell it–the tension, it was emitting like perfume, tasting the bitterness of it on your tongue, staining your tastebuds with the taste of his apprehension.
Dean finally blinked, eyes widened just a fraction for a split second, the towel slipping from his head and onto the carpet below him. He rushed to grab it, bending down to retrieve it, bumping his head against the wall in the process. Unflinching, like it was the least of his worries, he went and locked himself back inside the bathroom.
You bit your lip, unsure of how to react.
Why was he doing this? Was he trying to give you the silent treatment? To avoid you forever? To hurt you like you had hurt him?
After a couple more minutes of hogging the bathroom, Dean finally came out, all cool and collected. Not even sparing a glance your way once, he made his way to the bed, getting into it, pulling the blanket over himself, and click.
The lights went off.
You were starting to get what he was trying to do–to be an asshole, more than he ever was, and annoy the fuck out of you.
You ignored him, heading straight for the bathroom, trying to feel as unbothered as possible. You peeled off your clothes and stepped into the shower, the deliciously pain hot water streaming down your back, stinging your wounds even more. You liked it, because even though it was hurting, you deserved that, and you relished in that fact.
It had been almost an hour, when you were done. You dried yourself off with your towel, flinching every now and then when it pressed against your wounds. You dressed yourself in loose clothing, a random t-shirt you found in your duffle and some plaid bottoms.
You stared at yourself in the mirror–the deep purple bruise on your cheekbone was there, prominent as ever, dulling your complexion. The scar in your hairline wasn’t leaking anymore, hadn’t been for awhile, but the swelling was a bright angry red, as well as the cut on your bottom lip that was making it jut out in an odd way.
That’s when your eyes drifted down to the t-shirt you were wearing. Dean’s shirt.
For a second you wondered if it was going to upset him, to feel uncomfortable seeing you in his clothing. You knew he wouldn’t, right? You know him, don’t you?
He’s your best friend and you’re overreacting. Stop it.
You shook that uneasy feeling off and moved to the door, twisting the knob slowly, the door creaking open, inch by inch. You stepped into the darkness, only a sliver of light from the moon illuminating the room. You carefully walked towards the bed, making sure not to trip over anything.
You could hear Sam’s light snores from here, as you noticed that he was in a discomforting position, his body lying over his limp hand. You manoeuvred from the bed Dean was in to Sam. You pushed his shoulder, but he didn’t budge.
“Help me out here, Sammy,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him. You tugged the hand from under all his weight. He whined, stirring in his sleep.
“It’s okay, you’re good. Let’s just…” you mumbled, trying to shift his body again so he was lying on his back. You smiled, “There we go.” You pushed his hair off his sweaty forehead. He hummed, the snores making their way through his lips again.
You made your way to Dean’s bed, but paused when you saw his face. His eyes were softly shut, lips slightly parted, breathing calm and even. He was so…comfortable.
You couldn’t ruin that.
Resisting the urge to run your fingers through his hair and bury yourself in his arms, you spun on your heels, grabbed a jacket lying on the table, and stepped out of the room.
It was freezing cold, wind blowing in your face as you pulled on the jacket, which, shocker, belonged to Dean. You wrapped it around yourself tighter, pulling it closer to your body as you breathed in his scent–cheap musk and leather. You sighed, your eyes falling shut.
You wanted to apologise, to make him see what you saw. But for the first time, you weren’t sorry. He would have done the same thing, you were sure of it. He has, and you were supposed to watch him get hurt time and time again. But the second you did it, it’s your biggest crime. The man you trusted with your whole life didn’t trust you at all.
But you couldn’t take him being mad at you. There was this feeling, in the pit of your stomach, gnawing at you. It was just growing, eating away at you like you were its last meal, and leaving a trail of venom as it went, poisoning you with its essence, waiting for the moment you fall, the moment you realise you never do anything right, that all you are is wo–
“Gonna just leave me with an extra pillow, huh?”
You gasped, spinning around as you pulled out a little dagger from your pocket, going to throw it at the intruder.
“Woah, woah. Calm down, Eowyn. It’s me.”
The air got knocked out of your lungs. “De?”
“Yeah, De.”
“Wha–why are you here? You’re supposed to be sleeping.”
He shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“This whole time?”
“Mhm.”
You were confused. The way he was acting. He was calm, too calm, and it was making you uneasy.
“So why are you here?” You asked, voice low and hesitant.
He stepped up closer, standing right by your side, facing the parking lot opposite your room. “You weren’t in bed. I was worri–I was wondering where you were and found you here.” He turned to face you. “What are you doing here?”
“Wasn’t sleepy.”
“D’your eyebags get the memo, sweetheart?” Dean snarked.
“Shut up.” you turned to face the lot again, trying to avoid him.
You felt Dean’s gaze burn into your side. You turned to face him. “What?”
He looked you up and down, eyes lingering on the wounds on your face before stopping at the top you had on–a faded Metallica t-shirt. “That mine?”
“No.”
“The jacket?”
“No.”
“Right.” The both of you turned to face the road again.
You stood side by side, arms brushing, not speaking for a couple of minutes. You felt it–that tension, again. Your chest felt like it was slowly compressing. Weird. He wasn’t saying anything. Why wasn’t he saying anything? He was leaving you to be with your own thoughts, and you were drowning in them.
They hate you.
You’re just a fucking waste of space.
They didn’t even want you, forced to take you with them like an unwanted pest.
You ruin things.
You don’t do anything right.
You hurt everyone you meet.
You ruin everything.
They want you gone.
You ruin.
They don’t want you.
You deserve to be gone.
“Fuck, sweetheart, are you crying–”
“Are you trying to use some kind of reverse psychology on me?” you turned to face him, exasperated, talking over him.
“Wha–”
“Because it’s working. You’re mad at me.” You chewed on your bottom lip, trying to regulate yourself. Your face was hot. So hot.
“I’m not–”
“I didn’t mean to get the both of you hurt, I swear, it was just the girl was there, and the ghost was going to get her, Dean. I couldn’t, I couldn’t–”
He grabbed your shoulders. “Hey, hey, you’re good, sweetheart. You’re good.”
Your eyes felt wet. Your throat was tightening up. Your heart was beating unhealthily fast.
“I’m not,” you whispered, and you saw Dean’s heart visibly break right in front of you.
“I’m sorry. I do everything wrong. And I hurt and I hurt and I hurt. I fuck everything up. I’m so sorry,” You said, letting out a choked sob. Your chest felt tight, squeezing every little bit of oxygen left in you.
“No. No. Don’t say that.” Dean’s voice was heavy, like he was forcing the words out of his mouth. “You don’t fuck anything up–”
“You were so mad at me, Dean. I saw it. You didn’t even want to talk to me–”
“I wanted to.” His eyes locked onto yours. “I didn’t because I wanted to fucking scream at you.” He stepped closer, hands clenched into balls by his side. “For throwing yourself away like that. I know you wanted to save the girl, I know you did. But then I saw it, I saw the look you had–like you were grabbing your reason to lose yourself. L-like–” His voice cracked. “Like your life didn’t matter and that was your chance to throw it all away. I fucking saw it. So don’t even try to lie to me.”
“I…” Tears blurred your vision. You could barely think. “It’s not like that.”
He snorted, void of any emotion. “Yeah? Enlighten me. What could that possibly be like, then?
You sniffled, trying to pull in air into your empty lungs. “I don’t know, okay? I wasn’t thinking straight.”
“Damn right you weren’t. I–we could have lost you. And the worst part was that you were willing to.”
“I wasn’t willing–”
“Then what was that?”
“I had to punish myself, okay? I saw what was happening after I made us go in. I made us. It was my fault, Dean. I did whatever it took to protect everyone.”
Dean shook his head. “I don’t blame you. No one blames you. And that is not your job,” Dean whispered hoarsely, like he could barely say anything.
“You’d have done the same.”
“That’s different–”
“How could that be any different–”
“Because I fucking love you! And I won’t be able to ever forgive myself if something happens to you when I could have done something about it,” He steps closer, lips trembling. “Never.”
You felt your heart stop, the heavy beats coming to a rapid stop. He’s lying.
He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, before opening his eyes again, heavy with emotion and pain. “Why can’t you see how much you’re worth, baby?”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.
Dean had this look in his eyes, seeing you like this. It was the same look he had when Sam died after that whole ordeal with the yellow-eyed demon. Not the blatant anger, the part you would notice first. It came between blinks–scared, helpless, like he couldn’t even afford to close his eyes for a split second because he was just so frightened.
This time you didn’t have to pay close attention to see it, because it was all you could see.
The way his eyes crinkled, the way he slightly bit his bottom lip to prevent it from trembling, the way his cheeks were red from the heat and panic of the moment, it was basically screaming at you.
“C’mere,” he pulled you into his arms, one hand cradling your head tightly and the other wrapped around your back like you were going to disintegrate from his grip if he didn't hold you close enough.
“Nothing is wrong with you. Do you get me? Nothing,” Dean mumbled into your hair, pulling you impossibly closer. “I know you don’t believe me, but I’m going to keep telling you this until you do. Be it twice or two billion, you will believe me, sweetheart. Trust me, one day, you’ll see exactly what I see.”
Dean was right, you didn’t believe him. As much as you wanted to, as much as you tried, you couldn’t. But maybe he was right. You would believe him. You will get better.
After all, you trusted him with your whole life, didn’t you?
“I hope so,” you whispered, voice broken and raw.
Dean pressed a soft kiss into your hair. “I hope so, too,” he mumbled, barely audible.