imagine post s4-pre s5 homelander invites you over and you two are about to have sex and then BOOM you see his father being kept in a big ass tube in the middle of the room
Description: After a severe anxiety attack makes Y/N unable to trust anyone's touch, the Shelby family soon sees that the only person she feels safe with is Tommy.
The room is noisy. No one shouts, but all the voices blend together until it feels like a wall of sound pressing in on you.
You can’t catch your breath. Your chest feels tight, your hands tremble, and the wallpaper in Arrow House blurs as tears fill your eyes. "No... no..." you whisper.
Ada notices first. She crosses the drawing room in a hurry, concern etched across her face. "Love?"
You stumble backwards. "No!" The word tears from your throat before she can reach you.
She stops at once. "It's alright," Ada says gently, holding up her hands. "I won't touch you." But panic has already taken over. Your heartbeat pounds so loudly you’re sure everyone can hear it.
Polly stands up. "Give her some room." Arthur steps toward you. You flinch so hard that your back hits the wall.
"No!" you cry, squeezing your eyes shut. "Don't!"
Arthur immediately backs away. "I'm not gonna hurt you."
"I know..." you sob. "Just... don't."
John exchanges a worried glance with Polly. "What happened?"
No one is sure what set it off. One moment you were laughing over tea, then suddenly your breathing changed. Maybe someone mentioned trains, or the clink of porcelain was too sharp. Old memories return without warning. Now you’re shaking so much your knees might give out. You feel like you’ll break if anyone comes near.
Finn quietly moves toward the doorway. "Should I fetch the doctor?"
"No," Polly answers. Doctors won't fix this.
Ada kneels several feet away, careful not to invade your space. "Can you look at me?"
You can’t do it. Everything feels wrong. The room spins and your vision narrows. You clutch your sleeves, trying to keep yourself together.
Arthur rubs the back of his neck helplessly. "I don't know what to do."
Then your lips move. Barely audible. "...Tommy..." Silence fills the room.
Polly looks toward the front entrance. "Where is he?"
"Factory," John answers immediately.
Arthur doesn't wait. "I'll fetch him."
The panic keeps going. Minutes drag by. No one comes close. No one dares. Even from across the room, you sense their worry.
Ada speaks gently every so often. "You're safe.” “You don't have to talk.” “We're right here."
You hear what they say, but it doesn’t help. Your breathing speeds up. Tears keep falling. Your hands go numb. You don’t notice the front door slam downstairs. Heavy footsteps move quickly through the house.
"What happened?" Tommy. His voice cuts through the chaos like a blade.
Arthur answers first. "She's been like this nearly half an hour. Wouldn't let any of us near. Asked for you."
Tommy doesn’t answer right away. He comes into the room and meets your eyes. Everything else fades. He doesn’t rush or crowd you. He kneels a few feet away, at your level.
"There you are." His voice is calm. Steady. The kind of steady you've always associated with safety. Your breathing still shakes, but something inside you loosens. Just a little. "I'm here."
Fresh tears spill down your face. "I... can't..."
"I know." His words are simple. Certain. "You don't have to explain." The others remain silent. Watching. Tommy glances over his shoulder. "Everyone out."
Arthur hesitates. "Tom—"
"Out."
No one argues. In seconds, it’s just you and Tommy in the room. The silence feels gentler now. Tommy waits, knowing it helps more than pushing. "You still with me?" You nod weakly. "Breathe with me."
You try. You fail. "I'm sorry..."
"Don't apologise." His voice never changes. "You've done nothing wrong."
You squeeze your eyes shut again. "It hurts."
"I know."
"I can't stop."
"I know." His replies remain patient. Never frustrated. Never rushed. After another long moment, he asks quietly, "Can I come closer?" You hesitate, then nod once. He moves only a few inches, nothing more. Again he waits. "Is this alright?" Another nod.
A few minutes later: "Closer?"
You whisper, "Yes."
Eventually he's close enough that you can actually see every line of exhaustion on his face. Every tiny scar. Every fleck of blue in his eyes. "You still don't want to be touched?"
You swallow hard. "I... only you."
His face softens just a little. "Alright." He slowly offers his hand, waiting for you to take it. You stare at it for a few seconds before your shaking fingers finally reach out. When your hand slips into his, the world keeps spinning, but it slows down. You grip his hand tightly. He lets you. Your breathing is still shaky.
"I'm here," Tommy repeats. "I've got you."
Another sob escapes. "I'm scared."
"I know."
"What if it doesn't stop?"
"It will."
"You promise?"
"I don't make promises lightly." His thumb brushes your knuckles. "But yes." You hold on tighter. He doesn’t complain when your nails dig into his skin or try to pull away. He just stays with you, right where you need him.
"You remember what I told you?" You nod faintly.
"Breathe with me." He shows you how. Slow inhale. Slow exhale. Again and again. After a while, your breathing starts to match his. The heavy feeling in your chest eases. Your heartbeat slows down. The tears keep coming, but now they’re quiet and tired, not panicked.
Tommy studies you carefully. "Better?"
"A little."
He reaches into his pocket and produces a clean handkerchief. "You think you can take this?" You nod. Instead of wiping your face himself, he places it gently into your free hand. Giving you the choice. Always the choice. "You did well."
A shaky laugh escapes you. "I don't feel like I did."
"You stayed." He squeezes your hand once. "When your own mind turns against you, staying takes courage."
Your eyes fill again. "I hate when this happens."
"I know."
"I feel broken."
His jaw tightens. "No." You look up at him. "You hear me?" His voice is firm now. "You're not broken. You're scared. That's different." His words settle in. Part of you wants to argue, to list all the reasons you feel empty and undeserving. But the honesty in his eyes helps steady you. Maybe he’s right. Maybe being afraid doesn’t mean you’re ruined. For the first time since the panic started, you believe him, at least a little. There’s a soft knock at the door.
"Tom?" Ada's voice. "Is she alright?"
Tommy looks at you. "You ready?"
You think for a moment before nodding. "Only if you stay."
"I'm not going anywhere." He stands first before helping you to your feet, never pulling, never rushing. Your fingers remain intertwined with his.
When Ada quietly enters, relief washes over her face. "You feeling better?"
You nod. "A bit."
Arthur peeks around the doorway. "Can we come in now?"
Tommy glances at you again. Your decision. Not his. You manage a small smile. "Yeah."
The family comes back into the room, moving slowly so they don’t overwhelm you. No one asks questions or tells you to calm down. They just stay close. Tommy keeps holding your hand, not because you need him to, but because tonight, it’s where you both want to be.
You watch them settle around you. Their soft smiles and gentle eyes remind you of the safety you almost forgot. Your pulse is still shaky, and your breathing is rough, but something eases. You’re not alone with your fear. For the first time in hours, it feels a little lighter. Maybe tomorrow will be hard again. But for now, with people who don’t expect you to be strong, you let yourself believe you’ll be alright.
Hi!! I literally love reading your head cannons for jackles characters, they are the most accurate by far. To me at least haha
I was wondering what they would be like if crush!reader fell asleep on them accidentally. If you don’t take requests for the series or you’re not writing the head cannons series any longer, no worries!
Headcanon: You'll Be My Pillow
❧ Characters: Russell Shaw, Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen, Soldier Boy/Ben, Mark Meachum and Boaz Priestly
❧ Pairings: Russell Shaw x Reader, Dean Winchester x Reader, Beau Arlen x Reader, Soldier Boy/Ben x Reader, Mark Meachum x Reader, Boaz Priestly x Reader
❧ A/N: I'm definitely still writing these headcanons but I'm been focusing on some long form fanfic instead. Got some plans written up!
But I'll always do these requests, I love the ideas from you guys!!
Enjoy! 🩵
Russell Shaw
Russell felt the moment your head settled against his shoulder.
The two of you sat on the ratty motel couch, hours deep into surveillance footage for the latest case. You hadn't been sleeping well, and eventually exhaustion won.
Russell went still.
"You're supposed to warn a guy before you do that," he muttered under his breath.
He scrubbed a hand through his hair before forcing his attention back to the laptop.
The footage continued to play, faces and number plates blurring together, but he couldn't have told anyone what he was looking at.
All he could think about was the weight of your head resting against him. His heartbeat was louder than the audio coming from the laptop.
Carefully—slow enough that he wouldn't wake you—he shifted just enough to make sure your neck wasn't at an awkward angle.
Once he was satisfied you were comfortable, he settled again.
He didn't move after that.
Dean Winchester
Dean thought you'd done it on purpose when your head landed against his arm. For half a second, he figured you were messing with him.
Then he leaned forward just enough to catch a glimpse of your face. Your eyes were closed. Your lips were slightly parted. Your breathing had settled into the slow, even rhythm of someone completely asleep.
He blinked. "Wait..." he whispered. "She's actually asleep?"
His eyes darted around the room as if he expected hidden cameras to appear. This had to be some kind of joke.
Except it wasn't.
You'd simply...fallen asleep on him. Dean glanced back at you, suddenly afraid that even breathing too hard might wake you.
It was strange.
People relied on him. Needed him. Counted on him to save the day.
But trusting him enough to fall asleep against him? That was different. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
He didn't even think about shifting you off. He'd stay there as long as it took.
If it meant you got a little more sleep, the numb arm was worth it.
Beau Arlen
You hadn't had the heart to cancel movie night with Beau. Even though you were exhausted.
It had become a weekly tradition—curling up on the deck of the Airstream with snacks, Western movies, and whatever commentary Beau had to offer.
You'd promised yourself you'd stay awake. You didn't.
Beau noticed the moment your head found his shoulder. He glanced down, expecting you to apologize or shift away. Instead, he found you fast asleep.
He didn't mind. Not one bit.
Carefully, he reached for the blanket draped over the back of the loveseat and unfolded it with one hand.
The moment he settled it over you, you instinctively snuggled deeper into the warmth, letting out a quiet, contented sigh. Beau's smile only grew.
He turned the volume down until the movie became little more than background noise.
He spent the rest of it stealing the occasional glance at you instead.
Somehow, this had turned into the best part of movie night.
Soldier Boy
Of course you'd fallen asleep. And of course you'd picked him as a pillow.
He stared straight ahead, jaw tightening.
Seriously? Now he was stuck here. He couldn't move without waking you, and apparently waking you wasn't an option.
Wait. Since when?
This wasn't him.
He didn't do... whatever the hell this was. He glanced down. Your face was completely relaxed, your breathing slow and steady as you slept against his shoulder. He let out a quiet sigh through his nose. "Jesus Christ," he muttered.
It would've been so easy to nudge you awake. Tell you to move. Complain that your head was getting heavy. Instead, he stayed exactly where he was.
Then the front door to the loft swung open.
Hughie and Billy wandered in, still arguing about Homelander.
"Hey!" Soldier Boy hissed far louder than he intended. Both men stopped. He pointed toward you with a glare. "Shut the fuck up. She's sleeping."
Hughie's eyes widened. He awkwardly grabbed the shopping bags and hurried into the kitchen without another word.
Billy lingered behind the sofa, one eyebrow slowly climbing as a knowing grin spread across his face.
"Don't." Billy's grin widened. "I said don't say a fuckin' word." Billy chuckled under his breath and walked away. Soldier Boy rolled his eyes. "Asshole."
Mark Meachum
He knew it was going to happen. He'd known since the start of the day.
He noticed the dark circles beneath your eyes. He noticed how often you rubbed at them when you thought no one was looking. He noticed the slight slump in your shoulders every time you walked to refill your coffee.
He noticed. It was his job to notice. That's what he told himself, anyway.
So, when he asked you to help sort through a mountain of case files, it wasn't because he couldn't manage them alone. It was because sitting on the couch for a few hours sounded a lot kinder than sending you back out into the field.
For a while, you managed. You highlighted reports, made notes, and quietly compared witness statements with him. Then he noticed your grip on the folder begin to loosen. Your blinking slowed. Your breathing became softer.
He looked up just as your head started to tip.
Without a word, he shifted closer. Not enough for you to notice. Just enough that, instead of your head falling awkwardly to the side, it came to rest against his shoulder.
Right where he'd intended.
A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth. "There you go," he murmured. Carefully, he brushed a loose strand of hair away from your face before returning his attention to the file in his lap.
Boaz Priestly
Priestly had brought over the world's worst horror movie for your usual Friday night after work.
Neither of you were really watching it. You'd demolished a couple of foot-longs, argued over which monster was the least convincing, and settled into opposite ends of the couch. Or at least, you had.
By the halfway point, exhaustion was catching up with you. Your eyelids grew heavier. Your replies to his commentary became slower. You fought to stay awake. You lost.
The moment your head landed on his shoulder, Priestly completely melted. His heart practically stopped. For one glorious second, he thought you'd done it on purpose. Then he glanced down. Your eyes were closed. "...Oh." The biggest grin spread across his face.
He couldn't stop smiling if he tried. Unable to help himself, he rested his head lightly against yours for just a second.
This was nice.
Then another thought struck him. The movie. It was way too loud. He should turn it down.
Carefully—very carefully—he leaned forward without moving his shoulder.
The remote sat on the coffee table. Just... A little... Farther.
His fingertips brushed the edge of it. "Come on..." One more inch. Without thinking, he leaned just a fraction too far. His shoulder disappeared from beneath your head. With a soft whump, you slid sideways into the gap between him and the couch.
Your eyes flew open. "...What happened?"
Priestly froze, remote finally in his hand. "...I was trying to be romantic."
You blinked at him. "You pushed me off the couch."
"I know." He sighed dramatically, dropping his head into his free hand.
"I am spectacularly bad at this." Despite yourself, you laughed. Priestly looked up hopefully. "So... points for effort?"
Might I request Dean with a reader who is always on top of things, always in control of the situation, and just wants to turn her brain off sometimes :( She feels safe and comfortable with him and can actually relax and let him take control. Smut if you’re up for it but anything you write is wonderful so it will be great no matter what 🫶
⋆｡ ˚ let me handle it
summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ you spend your whole life keeping things together, but dean’s the one person who makes it feel safe to fall apart a little.
pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ dean winchester x best-friend!reader ( f )
wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 1123 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ suggestive fluff
warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ suggestive tension, moaning, best friends to lovers tension !!, physical touch, emotional exhaustion
notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ
you don’t know how to turn it off.
that’s the problem. the real one, underneath the hunt and the blood on your sleeve and the bruise blooming deep under your shoulder blade. you can patch a wound with one hand, reload a shotgun in the dark, talk a witness out of calling the police, keep dean from running headfirst into a trap and sam from overthinking himself into a migraine. you can read a room in three seconds. you can make a plan before anyone else notices there needs to be one.
but you cannot—for the life of you—sit still on the edge of a motel bed without mentally checking the locks, counting the weapons, remembering the fake names on the credit cards, wondering if the thing you killed really stayed dead.
dean notices every single time. “you’re doing that thing,” he says from the bathroom doorway, toothbrush hanging from his mouth, hair damp from his shower.
you look up from the lore book open in your lap. “what thing?”
he points the toothbrush at your face. “that.”
“this is my face.”
“yeah, and it’s gonna wrinkle fast.”
you stare at him, face scrunching harder.
he disappears back into the bathroom to spit, then comes out wiping his mouth with a hand towel, barefoot, t-shirt clinging a little at his shoulders.
“case’s done,” he says. “sam’s in the next room. doors are locked. salt’s down. nobody’s dying tonight.”
“that’s optimistic.”
“that’s an order.”
you huff. “you don’t order me around.”
his mouth curves. “not usually.”
the words land warmer than they should. you look away first, because that’s safer, and dean sees that too. his expression shifts, teasing softened by something more careful. he crosses the room and takes the book out of your hands before you can protest.
“lie down,” he says.
you hesitate, shoulders tight, fingers twitching like they still want to hold the book. “dean—”
“c’mon. you trust me, right?” his green eyes catch yours, steady, a little too open. the kind of look that makes your chest ache because you’ve been best friends for years and somewhere along the way that line blurred so badly you don’t know how to step back across it. you do trust him. more than anyone.
you exhale and stretch out on your stomach, face turned into the cheap pillow. the mattress dips when he climbs on behind you, knees bracketing your thighs. his hands settle on your shoulders first—warm, calloused, hesitant for half a second like he’s waiting for permission.
“go ahead,” you grumble into the pillow.
he starts slow. thumbs pressing into the knot just under your neck, working in firm circles. you bite your lip at the first real pressure, a tiny sound slipping out. his hands still. “that hurt?”
“no, no,” you whisper. “it was good. keep going.”
he does. the rhythm builds—heels of his palms dragging down your spine, spreading heat through the tight muscles. every pass loosens something, but your brain keeps spinning. did we check the devil’s trap under the rug? is the salt line thick enough? what if—
“hey.” dean’s voice is right by your ear now, breath warm. “stop thinking. i got you.”
his fingers slide under the hem of your shirt, pushing fabric up. cool air hits your skin, then his palms—hot, steady. he works the bruise on your shoulder blade with careful pressure, never too hard, like he memorized exactly where it hurts. you let out a soft, involuntary moan when he hits a perfect spot. it sounds louder than you meant.
through the thin wall you hear sam’s bed creak. dean chuckles low, the sound vibrating against your back. “easy, sweetheart. sam’s gonna think i’m doing fun things to you.”
heat floods your face. you bury it deeper in the pillow, but another moan escapes when his hands glide lower, thumbs bracketing your spine. “can’t help it,” you mumble. “feels too good.”
“yeah?” his voice drops, rougher. eager. that good-boy tone he gets when he knows he’s doing something right for you. “tell me where else.”
you don’t answer with words. instead you shift, arching just a little. his fingers find the clasp of your bra and pause—waiting. you nod. the hooks give way with a quiet click. the straps loosen and dean’s hands spread wide across your bare back, skin on skin. no barriers. just him.
he leans in, chest brushing your shoulder as he works down toward your waist. his touch turns slower, less clinical. thumbs sweeping along the dip of your lower back, fingers splaying over your sides, brushing the soft curve where waist meets hip. every stroke feels heavier now, warmer.
his breath fans across your neck. “you’re always carrying everything,” he murmurs, lips close enough that you feel the words more than hear them. “let me take some of it. just for tonight.”
you whimper softly when his hand slips further, palm flat against your skin just above the waistband of your jeans. the sound is breathy, needy. sam’s tv turns up a notch next door—probably on purpose. dean smiles against your shoulder, pressing a slow kiss there.
“good girl,” he whispers. “relax for me.”
his fingers trace idle patterns now, teasing lower, then back up, mapping every inch like he’s learning a new weapon. your body melts under him even as your mind flickers—this is dean, your dean, best friend, the one who makes you laugh after the worst hunts—but the ache in your chest mixes with the heat low in your belly. you want more. you want to turn everything off and just feel his hands, his weight, the way he’s so careful and so hungry at the same time.
he shifts, one knee nudging your thighs a fraction apart so he can settle deeper. the new angle lets his palms roam wider, thumbs pressing into the dimples at the base of your spine. another moan slips free, longer this time. your hips twitch without permission.
you hear dean’s breath catch. “fuck, baby. you keep making noises like that and i’m not gonna wanna stop.”
you turn your head, cheek against the pillow, catching his eye. the look he gives you is raw—affection and want and years of almosts all at once. “don’t stop, then,” you breathe.
his grin is slow, devastating. he leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “yes ma’am.”
his hands keep moving, reverent and filthy in the same breath, working tension out of your body while winding new tension somewhere deeper. you let yourself sink into it—the safety of his touch, the way he knows exactly how to hold you together and take you apart at the same time. for once, your brain goes quiet. just dean. just this.
ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.
✮ Most people would expect him to be impatient when teaching someone. That he’d get annoyed when they repeat a question or can’t seem to learn. And in most cases yeah he would be, but with you? Never
✮ You could ask him the same question four times and he’d still explain it to you kindly and throughly “yea’ nah sweetheart that’s not where ya put the oil, this is”
✮ Dean will be positioned behind you, his arms coming around you as with one hand points at what he’s talking about while the other is rested on your waist
✮ Radio station playing classical rock can be heard in the background as he explain
✮ Dean loooooves it when you ask questions about what he was explaining
✮ He will suddenly kiss you when you’re all focused because he just thought your concentrated expression was too adorable “ ‘is not my fault you’re all cute”
✮ Lastly will do a lil pop quiz asking you questions about everything he had taught you
you are my absolute favorite spn writer, I love your writing so much <33
could i please request a drabble for dean where reader can't stand seeing him stressed and tense, because of a rough mission, and offers him a massage? it can be fluffy or suggestive, whichever you like better
📨 okay hey fun fact you are actually the sweetest ever, thank you so much for your kind words! i am honored to be your favorite spn writer :’) most of the time it’s hard to make myself believe that people like what i write so. thank you for washing away some insecurities of mine… 🫠 anyway hopefully i did your request justice cause this is SUCH A GREAT SCENARIO <3
. . . 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐔𝐓𝐄 𝐁𝐘 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐔𝐓𝐄. ♫ ⋆.˚
THE HUNT WENT TERRIBLE, TO SAY THE LEAST. you all were on edge—stressed out beyond belief—especially dean, per usual. always the one to take the blame, to put the most weight on his shoulders, all for the sake of lightening the load for someone else. it’s almost annoying, his false sense of self-righteousness, the need to place all the pressure on himself, since he has so much already—but mostly, you just want him to stop beating himself up.
tonight, however, the monster you all hunted did the beatings for dean before he himself got the chance. there were bruises and cuts littering his entire face, and you knew that the marks would look worse tomorrow as you glanced at dean’s side profile again.
you were sitting in the passenger seat—sam calling the backseat to “lay down”, but you knew it was because he knew dean was a ticking time bomb. the impala was in a stifling silence the entire way back to the bunker, and you could feel the tension radiating off of dean. it broke your heart—because you knew how much he was beating himself up more than the thing you rid the world of tonight ever could.
you don’t lay eyes on dean until about 4 hours after you get back. of course, you tried to build up the courage to say something to him, to try and make him feel better when you originally first got back to the bunker—but chickened out before you ever could. as much as you hated to see dean like this, a part of you was expecting that he’d take his stress out on you.
he’s sitting at the table in the kitchen, looking broody, as he does on nights like this. you weren’t expecting him to be sitting there, but really, where else would he be when a hunt went like it did today? it was a late hour, despite you being awake. you hadn’t really slept, per se—it was more like your brain couldn’t shut off all the way. like your body couldn’t rest, not when dean was close by and suffering in silence.
dean doesn’t look at you when you walk in—because he knows what yours and sam’s strides sound like. he doesn’t greet you, either—in fact, he almost looks shameful about the fact that you’ve now seen him, despite him quirking a corner of his mouth at you in recognition. you almost chicken out again and leave when he looks back down again, but something stops you.
the bottle and glass in front of him aren’t in use. the bottle’s still sealed, and the glass is still clean. and dean’s just staring at the glass, eyes glazed over. like he’s not really there. you’d like to bring him back, just for a little while. just until the sun comes up, maybe. so instead of going for your midnight snack like you originally planned, you find yourself going over to dean.
you know he’s in deep, when it takes him a second to even recognize the fact you’re closer to him now. his hand lets go of the glass he was fidgeting with, instead looking up at you next to him. he doesn’t say anything, and neither do you—not yet, at least.
you take in his features, now that you’re up close—and at least he had the sense to patch and clean himself up a little before staring at a bottle of whiskey for an eternity. you place a hand on his shoulder, and he flinches. just a little. you tilt your head, concerned—but don’t comment on it. you just leave your hand there, testing.
dean, finally, leans into your arm—just enough for you to know that he’s not hating this. your thumb brushes on his shoulder once before you step just a little closer. it seems the less space that remains between you and dean the more you can feel the tension inside him. he’s still looking at you, but he’s not all the way there.
your hand slides down his shoulder, over his arm, until it reaches his own hand. you take it in yours, tug at him gently. dean hesitates, no doubt weighing his options. and yet, he stands up, leaves the unopened whiskey on the table, and lets you lead the way.
you don’t take him to his own room, which shocks dean—but not enough to actually say something about it. he’s tired, he realizes—more tired than he has been in a while. and not all of it is something that can be fixed with a good night’s rest.
both of you stop at the foot of your bed, hands still intertwined. you looked at him again, stepping closer. dean felt his heart jump when you did—and not because he didn’t want you close. quite the opposite, really. he swallows hard when you start taking off his flannel for him.
“don’chya gotta buy me dinner first, or somethin’…?” dean inquires, but it’s barely above a murmur and half-assed. the question almost dies in his throat—and you don’t entertain his habitual attempt at lightening this moment.
“lay down,” you murmur as you nod to your bed, not answering—and if dean was a little less tired and a lot less starved for your attention than he was now, he’d never would laid down—but he was, so he laid face down on your bed, immediately met with the scent of you filling his lungs.
dean’s not sure what he was expecting—but when you get onto your bed after him and start touching his shoulders and back, he realizes.
you’re trying to coax the tenseness out of him. trying to make him less stressed out. a strange feeling blooms in his chest upon this development. he wonders why he’s almost uncomfortable with the fact that you want to comfort him. he doesn’t want to think about it too hard—because he’ll spiral like he’s been doing all night.
maybe it’s because he’s spent his entire life not having any comfort, or maybe the fact that he’s so used to being the one giving out comfort, he doesn’t know what it feels like to receive it—but whatever it is, dean forces the looming thought to be shoved into a box for tonight.
your hands act as if they’re touching something holy. but it’s just him, who’s receiving your attention. your fingers work at the tightness of his shoulders, and it doesn’t hurt like he thought it would. it feels… strangely good. it takes him a second, but he stops holding his breath in, lets out a soft sigh. you take it as a win.
dean is tense, obviously. almost unbelievably so. his shoulders, neck and back seem permanently wound up as you work at them with your hands. you weren’t sure if dean was comfortable having his undershirt off, so you just left it on—but your fingertips sneak just a little under the collar of his t-shirt, grazing his bare skin. dean lets out another sigh, adjusts his head deeper into the pillow.
he feels tired again now that he’s in a bed. if he was more awake, he’d be more jokey, more easygoing, cracking a joke about you trying to get in his pants. but not tonight. tonight, dean’s tired. so unbelievably tired. he’s slowly seeming to melt under your touch, despite his mind’s initial protests.
he feels an overwhelming urge to cry, all of a sudden. over the fact that you’re touching him solely to try and make him feel better, over the fact that you’re doing it for the only purpose of comforting him. the urge almost suffocates dean—but he chokes it down, lets his eyes shut instead.
dean doesn’t moan—but some sort of rumble leaves him when you knead at a specific tender spot on his back. you debate making a comment on it, then decide not to, focusing on your thumbs now working down dean’s spine.
you risk a peek at dean after you hear his breathing slow and even out—after whispering his name, he doesn’t stir, even a little. he fell asleep, knowing only your touch and scent, instead of pain and his own thoughts turning on him. he can’t recall the last time he felt so safe. so loved. it seemed like a good way to fall asleep, surrounded by softness and you.
so for once, dean let himself have this slice of warmth.
