almost something, almost nothing ☆ dean winchester
summary: does dean really love you ?
pairing: dean x reader (gn) | genre: relationship angst | word count: 1.7k
warnings: dirtbag/trashy dean, a bit of fade-to-black smut (nothing heavily described, use your discretion), just general bad situations and icky dean
notes: requested !! this took ages to get to but. we got there. wonderful idea <3. also if any of you are in relationships like this, take a minute and think about if its worth your peace :] also took some inspo for the post structure fro "over the hills and far away" by @kblognar !!
taglist
February 14th
dean <3 : gonna be late coming back
you : where are you?
dean <3 : out
you : that doesn’t help
dean <3 : it doesn’t matter where I am
dean <3 : just don’t bother waiting up
dean <3 : gonna be a while
you : do you even care?
dean <3 : not really. am I supposed to?
you : right. it’s not like we’re anything anyways, right?
dean <3 : yeah. right.
dean <3 : lock the door behind me
dean <3 : message deleted
-
Your phone in your hand is heavy, quaking with a heartbeat of its own that beats to the tune of yours breaking in your chest. You’ve seen this day coming for months, but when it finally arrives, it hits like a freight train to the chest and tears through your ribcage. The little pockets of Dean that have inhabited your soul start to fade, limbs vanishing and voices cut short until there’s nothing left but echoes of what he used to be, living in eroded caves in the hollows of your chest, clinging to your ribs like drowning men at sea. The deleted message stares back at you intently, taunting you for missing the content it held; an apology, maybe, or a confession, or maybe the final nail in the coffin that would leave no room for remorse.
The waiting is the worst, you decide. The uncertainty, toeing the line between something and nothing; almost too much, almost not enough, forever wondering if you mean anything to the man you’re afraid to tell you love. Knowing he feels the same would bring even the tiniest bit of peace, but you both know he’s much too stubborn for that. He’d rather leave you floundering with no life jacket if it keeps him above water, because the last thing he wants to do is drag you down into the depths of hunting hell with him. You’re already there, you tell him over and over, but he just can’t commit. Seeing your name next to his on a list is the signal every monster in a hundred-mile radius needs to target you and tear away the very thing he loves.
It’s the constant stream of excuses that does it for you. The late nights spent elsewhere so he can pretend he doesn’t know your name, the bars he frequents until he stumbles home wasted with those pleading eyes and voice that begs and drags you back in no matter how many times you think about leaving. Because you can’t leave him, not like this; not when he’s destroyed, counting on you to let him do his thing and have his back when he needs someone to keep his spine straight. He needs you, and you need the validation that he needs you, and every time you argue about this, you’ll always stumble back to his bed and into his strong arms and let him hold you through the night.
-
February 14th
you : dean?
you : did you mean it?
Message sent
dean is offline
-
February 14th
It’s going to happen tonight when he comes back. There’s no other way to go about it. Sam might help, if he’s in a good mood and feeling like he can deal with the emotional fall-out from his stupid brother. It just has to happen tonight. How we even made it this long is a mystery. Everything that he did at the start that sounded so sweet is just…gone. There’s still long rides in the Impala, but it’s always about where he wants to go and what he wants to do. There’s always nights together but it’s about him and how he feels. It’s not entirely his fault, but it’s just…too much. Gotta get away. Gotta get out. No more of this pity party crap. Tonight is the last night that any of this happens. We can’t keep getting away with almost breaking up every other night.
-
February 15th
you : door’s unlocked, in case you care
you : we need to talk
you : when you get back
you : if* you get back
dean : on my way now.
-
The door closes. You hear the click in the lock, you think he’s come to yell.
His footsteps down the hall. You hear the laces on the floor and the slump in his step, you think he’s come to yell.
His weight on the doorframe to the bedroom. You hear the wood creak and groan under his weight, you know he’s come to yell.
Dean kneels at the bedside. You hear the exhale of breath laced with liquor and promise, you brace for him to yell.
Sharp movements. But he doesn’t snap. Hard eyes. But he looks at you softly. His touch is cold on your cheek, but it burns sharp like the whiskey on his breath.
Dean doesn’t yell.
Instead, he stays quiet.
And the quiet is worse than the noise.
-
“Look at me, sweetheart,” he says, hand light on your cheek and thumb brushing under your eye, sweeping away tears that threaten to fall.
“I am looking at you,” you whisper, turning your face away.
Dean reaches up to press a light kiss to your forehead. His lips brush against your hairline, cracked in places from the wind, but soft in a way that he only gets with you. The kind of soft that begs you to stay when all you can think about it leaving. The kind of soft that flutters into your soul and fills the caves with new versions of Dean, little figures that wrap arms around your heart and help it beat stronger than it does when you’re alone. The kind of soft that feels like a blanket lain over a body by tender hands, rough side down so the barbed wool catches on callouses and scrapes. It doesn’t mean to hurt, but it can’t do anything else but that. A flaw in its design, most likely.
He doesn’t say anything more; just puts a hand around the back of your neck and brings you to him, his lips pressing kisses across your face in a pattern he’s become familiar with. The kisses trace down your neck until all you can feel is Dean and all you can taste is the way he talks to you like you mean something. Maybe you do, to him, in some strange and twisted way. Maybe you mean everything, and that’s why he can only give you nothing. Maybe you mean enough that he needs to keep himself away to keep you safe; but why protect what you love if it tears you apart?
The room narrows to Dean on you. Your taste on his mouth. His taste in yours. Bodies together, rocking in time to some melody that sounds like love and hate and regret and promises that will never see the light of day, because nobody can afford promises in a time like this. And like every night before this one, it ends with Dean’s arms around you and his chin on your shoulder, breath soft in your ear and murmuring faint reassurances to you before you drift off to the beat of his heart. He stays up a while longer, for reasons he can’t explain. To make sure you’re truly asleep, maybe. To come up with a way to reconcile that isn’t heated touches, possibly. More likely to see that you’re still in his bed, still warm and next to him, still something he can touch and kiss and see. To make sure that he didn’t drive you away with his recklessness. To make sure you never really broke up that night.
-
February 15th
It keeps happening. We almost broke up again, but we didn’t, because something about the situation means too much to back out of it. Sam said he’d help, which means something in a way he’ll never quite understand the importance of. The way he’s willing to choose this over his brother and help where it hurts. That’s something Dean couldn’t ever do. Right now, he’s coming up with a plan, something for us to do together, something that makes the hurt sting less and the hope feel brighter. Maybe it’ll work, maybe it won’t. Most likely, we’ll just be back here again tomorrow night for another argument. Maybe we’ll yell this time, maybe he’ll hit something, maybe he’ll finally do something he can’t take back, to give a good reason to get out of here and far away. But that’s just what we do, apparently. Break up, come back, over and over again.
-
February 15th
you : dean?
dean <3 : what’s up, sweetheart?
you : wat are you doing?
you : what*
dean <3 : c’mon for a ride. there’s a lake a couple hours away. wanna get out for a bit with you.
-
The phone is heavy in your hand again, but this weight is different. This isn’t the breaking of a heart; this is the start of a change. Naïve, probably. But what is the point if it isn’t to hope for something out of reach? People change all the time, you reason with yourself as you stand from the bed. People make mistakes, and they regret them and they move forward and pretend like nothing is wrong. The only way that any of this makes sense to you is if you reason that he’ll do it different this time, that he’ll learn and make up for it, and that you’ll never have to argue over who’s time is worth what. Maybe today’s the day you get a label, something more than just the person that hunts with the Winchesters. Really, you should just walk away. But you can’t, not when it’s him.
-
February 15th
dean <3 : you coming?
you : message deleted
you : yeah, lemme get my boots on
Stumbling into the motel room after the latest hunt, you felt like you'd gone swimming in a manhole. You wouldn't dare to think about the guts and whatever gross substances were slathered on your body. That would only lead to spiraling and lighting something on fire. Probably yourself.
"I need a bath." You'd announced, letting your bag clatter beside your bed. Well, it was the bed you were sharing with your boyfriend.
Without even needing to glance over your shoulder, and spot the smirk curving the side of Dean's mouth, you speak up once more. "Alone."
And that had been ten minutes ago. The water had been turned on and stopped. You were inside the bathroom, in the tub, relaxing. Just like you wanted to.
But Dean was bored. Unequivocally.
He tried looking for new hunts. Cleaning his guns. Even started pestering Sam by going up behind him and pretending to punch him, muttering "pow" each time he did it. But he was only able to do it twice before Sam waved him off. Staring at the wall was an option he easily decided to decline.
So here he was, opening the bathroom door with a sheepish grin. He opens the door a crack- just enough for his face to smush against the door.
"Hey, sweetheart." He says coyly, glancing at you in the tub. "I know you said you didn't want to be bothered but-"
"Dean, please." You sigh, looking over at him.
"I know. It'll just take a second." He pleads, flashing his famous five-watt grin.
A long-suffering sigh falls from your lips. "Alright. What's up?"
"I'm thinking burgers tonight. Or that Italian restaurant with the feta and spinach pizza you like. Which, really sweetheart, you gotta work on your pizza choices. S'a real bummer watching you-"
If you weren't trying to destress, he would have been endearing. It was sweet. The mighty Dean Winchester could barely spend fifteen minutes without his girlfriend. You take a breath and let the ghost of a smile twitch at your mouth.
"Honey. Burgers are fine." Your voice is calm, despite the frustration brewing in your abdomen. All you wanted was twenty minutes. And clean clothes.
Dean seems to get the hint. "Alright. I'll, uh, get out of your hair."
He closes the door with a soft click, leaving you to submerge yourself beneath the lavender scented bubbles.
That doesn't last long.
He's back at it again, apologizing and starting a whole new conversation. One that really could have waited ten minutes. Only this time, he comes into the bathroom.
The door shuts behind him. He walks over to sit on the edge of the toilet lid, glancing down at you. To be a flirt, or curb the rising agitation in your gaze, he winks at you.
"You know where my keys are, mama? Gonna head out and get food."
"In your jacket. Where I always leave them." You close your eyes, trying to pretend to have some solace.
"Wait, actually, I'll just wait. We can go together." The smile is evident in his words.
"Sounds good, honey." You murmur, knowing it was no use. A small smile captures your expression. "I'll be out soon."
"I'll just stay in here, then."
"Dean!"
He laughs, already getting up and walking towards the door. "Okay, okay, I'm leavin'! Gosh, woman."
The last thing you hear is the door shutting and a muffled 'I love you.'
summary moments of obliviousness, and one of realization.
content gn!reader, mutual pining and a confession, sam and dean appearances! fluffy fluff and gentle touches, cas is a lot confused and a lot in love with reader!
Cas doesn't know what's wrong with his hair, only that your hands are delicate as you fuss with it and that the concentrated jut of your lip makes him feel strange. Prickling and fuzzy all over, as if he's been under thick sunlight for too long. Except it doesn't burn horribly, and he'd like this morning to last forever.
"What is that?" He asks.
You stretch only slightly to reach, fingers at the tips of his dark strands and greasy with a clear, thin oil. It smells like patchouli and lavender, and he likes the scent almost as much as yours. He prefers everything that is you.
"It's to keep your hair from getting tangled," you murmur. "It's windy out today."
He's warm taffy at the sound of your voice. Pliable and stretchy, he feels his center of grace being pulled towards you. It buzzes when your hands pull away and a finger brushes against his temple on the way down. It's hard to refrain from leaning in.
"I like it," he nods. "Thank you."
From the doorway, Sam smiles and shakes his head, exasperated.
⟡⟡⟡
An early autumn breeze kisses all heat from your skin with a chill, and sends your arm looping through the crook of Cas' elbow. You press close against his side, he presses back because he's got plenty warmth to spare, and the only thing out of place is Dean's smirk.
He stands at Baby with his feet crossed in the near distance, and when Cas glances down, Sam is watching from inside the car with an eerily similar expression.
"They are being weird," he tells you, under his breath.
Your throat bobs with a soft swallow, he notices. And as you step up a curb together and closer to the boys, your arm withdraws and he's left feeling empty. A crack in his chest that yawns into a gap when you throw him a small smile and open your own door to the backseat. He always opens it for you, he likes to, but you're too quick today.
"Aren't they always?"
He hums and slides in beside you, thigh bumping to yours.
While an argument about the volume of music ensues in the front, he watches with gentle cerulean eyes as your fingers twitch and your palm flips up in offering above your lap. He takes it with the only thought in his head being how happy he is to hold your hand like this.
⟡⟡⟡
Six hours into the drive, the sun begins to melt down the sky with beaming rivulets of yellow. Your cheek squished to his shoulder and snoring quietly, fingers tangled into a fold of his coat, Cas thinks you're most pretty. The prettiest. More than stars and flowers.
You're drooling. But in a very sweet, tired and human sort of way, he doesn't mind at all. What does irk him is the slapping of Dean's hands against the wheel and the raspy voice belting from the radio.
"Dean," he grunts, very still. "Stop. Turn it down."
Dean peeks into the rearview. "Why?"
"It is obnoxiously loud. They're sleeping."
A long, bleeding sigh, before Axl Rose is silenced. Sam's head turns to watch Dean, and they share one of their silent conversations that Cas isn't very fond of. The Impala hiccups over a dip in the road, and he brings his bicep around your shoulder to keep you steady and undisturbed.
"This is getting a little ridiculous, man," Dean huffs, words underlain with a stabbed attempt at sincerity.
"What is getting ridiculous?"
It's all quiet for a prolonged moment. His heart squeezes at the feel of your weight, the breath that puffs out through your parted lips and fans on his collar. He likes that he's the one you're resting on. There's a falling in his chest, like a plume of feathers hitting the ground, as he thinks about how he'd like to be this for you always.
He blinks slow.
"All this... cuddling. And the smiles. And the touches."
"It is human nature, our dynamic is as such."
"Your dynamic," Dean repeats in a breath of laughter. "They're into you, dude. You've gotta do something about it."
Cas tilts his head and thinks. About your blooming smile and your hands on his shoulders, face, held between his own. The way you say his name with a dulcet lilt. How he's thrown into a golden, blossoming euphoria when you explain things to him that he pretends not to know about, just to hear you talk.
"Into me. In what way?"
Sam is so merciful as to cut in, turning around in his seat.
"They... they've got a crush on you. They're interested. Romantically."
He knows what a crush is. What had been a complicated topic has become something simpler over his time spent here, sweeter and pure, to think that you harbor such a honeyed thing for him makes his forehead balm.
Silence settles again. Pillowing atop him like fresh snow, he's met with the first loss of words in the spanning, expansive thing that is his existence.
"You good?" Sam asks, patient and knowing.
Cas nods. He is perfect.
⟡⟡⟡
When you fall asleep in your hotel room that night, Cas is there and watching over you. As your eyes flutter open and contract under a hissing ray of early light, he's gone. You sit up, blankets pooling, a lonely ache between your ribs.
It's soothed by the message on your nightstand, relieved to know he hasn't left without a trace or goodbye. His name written in elegant calligraphy on a creased sheet of complementary notepad, you take it and unfold the paper quickly.
I possess a crush on you, too.
Love, Castiel.
❤︎
my cas debut! please have mercy on me as it is my first ever time writing for him!!
hi, sleep deprived anon popping in to request a reader x dean fic where reader is suddenly unnaturally irritated by everything and very moody. just every little thing getting on their nerves and they're just over it and wondering what the hell is going on with them until dean steps in and reminds them they haven't had good sleep all week. maybe like a sarcastic reminder like 'there's this little thing called sleep. which you aren't very acquainted with.' or 'ever heard of it?' that makes reader shoot daggers at him. & eventually he gets reader to stop what their doing and rest, thank you!!
⋆｡ ˚ a little thing called sleep
summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ after days of running on fumes, everything starts getting on your nerves—until dean points out the obvious problem you’ve been ignoring.
pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ dean winchester x reader ( gn )
wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 565 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ fluff
warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ irritability, exhaustion, mild snapping, teasing, caretaking, forced rest (gentle), soft domestic vibes
notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ
Everything is annoying.
Not mildly irritating. Not manageable.
Annoying.
The bunker lights are too bright. The chair creaks every time you shift. The pages of the lore book in front of you feel too loud when you flip them.
Even your own breathing is starting to piss you off.
You slam the book shut.
“Okay, why is everything suddenly—” you gesture vaguely, “—like this?”
Sam glances up from his laptop, cautious. “Like what?”
“Wrong,” you snap.
Dean doesn’t look up from cleaning his gun. “That clears it up.”
You shoot him a look sharp enough to cut glass.
“Do you mind?”
“Little bit, yeah,” he says. “You’ve been stomping around like a thundercloud for the past hour.”
“I am not stomping.”
“You absolutely are.”
You push your chair back harder than necessary and stand, immediately pacing. “I just— everything is getting on my nerves.”
Dean watches you for a second. Really watches. Then he sets the gun down with a quiet click. “…How much sleep did you get last night?”
You scoff. “That’s not the point.”
“How much.”
You hesitate. “…Like, three hours.”
Dean nods slowly. “And the night before that?”
You cross your arms. “Dean—”
“Humor me.”
“…Four.”
“And before that?”
You don’t answer.
Dean leans back in his chair, looking entirely unimpressed. “There’s this little thing,” he says casually, “called sleep.”
You glare at him.
“Which you are apparently not very acquainted with.”
Your eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”
“Ever heard of it?” he adds.
Okay.
That does it.
You stare at him, absolutely fuming. “If you’re about to lecture me—”
“I’m about to point out the obvious,” he cuts in. “You’re not possessed, you’re not cursed, you’re just running on fumes and taking it out on everything that breathes.”
You open your mouth.
Close it.
Because—
Annoyingly—
He’s not wrong.
You hate that.
“I’m fine,” you insist weakly.
Dean raises a brow. “You just got mad at a chair.”
“It squeaks.”
“It’s a chair.”
You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “Okay, but that doesn’t mean I can just— stop. We have work to do.”
Dean stands.
And that’s when you know you’ve lost.
Because when Dean decides something, he decides.
“Work can wait,” he says simply.
“It can’t—”
“It can,” he repeats, stepping closer. “You’re exhausted.”
“I’m functional.”
“You just declared war on furniture.”
“That’s not—”
“Bed,” he says, pointing.
You stare at him. “Dean.”
“Bed.”
You consider arguing. Really, you do. But your head is starting to pound, your body feels heavier than it should, and the irritation that’s been buzzing under your skin suddenly feels more like… burnout.
You sigh. “…Fine.”
Dean’s expression softens immediately.
“C’mon.” He guides you toward the bed, not pushing, just steady. You sit down, then slowly lie back, staring up at the ceiling.
Everything still feels a little too loud. But less sharp now. Dean grabs the blanket and tosses it over you. “Get some sleep.”
You huff. “Bossy.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
He hesitates, then reaches down and brushes his hand lightly over your arm. “You’ll feel better,” he says, quieter now.
You blink up at him. “…Stay?” The word slips out before you can stop it.
Dean doesn’t tease you for it. He just nods once and sits on the edge of the bed.
“Yeah. I got you.”
Your eyes start to close almost immediately.
And for once—everything finally stops being so damn loud.
ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.
summary patching up dean's arm but his bicep is right there!! and it's so pretty!
content gn!reader, newly established relationship. reader is awkward because how couldn't you be around him!! use of baby, sweet thing, angel, lots of soft touches and kisses!
requested ⟢ masterlist
Dean is pretty in the way that makes you want to wring his neck. Bold and cocky, because he knows he's pretty and he isn't humble enough to go easy on you. He smirks and touches and winks and leans in, and then laughs when you get flustered. As if your heart isn't a battering ram about to give out.
Even worse when he's close, staring up at you from the edge of a bed. You wipe crusting crimson from his cheeks and chin and work to disinfect a scrape on his bare shoulder, it blooms a purple bruise down a small length of his bicep from the impact. He blinks with shining eyes, lip pink and only a little busted as he smiles.
"You look good when you're focused," he muses.
Your heart spins on a fast cycle. He's awful, ribboning out soft compliments that send you into a tizzy. All you can do is hum and keep focused. Don't let your knees buckle at his stupid, lovely face that you'd secretly like to kiss.
You press a wet wad of cotton to the scrape and he pretends not to wince. He likes to be cool around you, and it always makes you warm. It licks up your insides and neck and to the place behind your ears. You blink into his eyes and have to look away quick, or else it all might begin to burn.
So pretty that blood and dirt and grime only add to his complexion. So pretty that when his hand finds the dip of your waist to squeeze, you press a little too hard on his skin. His bicep flexes beneath your touch, and you feel dizzy. A little like a loser. A lot fuzzy all over as your fingertips glide down his muscle without any command.
"Careful, baby," he says.
You reply with a voice much too weak. "I'm being careful."
He's quiet. His gaze flicks down to your wandering hand and he catches your wrist when you attempt to pull it away. Smirking with simple lines around the corners of his mouth, lashes dark as he watches you knowingly, it all buries deep in your chest. You want to be frustrated with his cheekiness, but he kisses at your knuckles and everything else washes away.
"You're not subtle," he chuckles, all mirth. His fingers knead at the skin of your side.
Shyness creeps in. You feel it in multitudes as his kisses press down your palm and wrist, a swath of them to the vein there, and the feeling blossoms like fire. You're preening and it's too much effort to hide.
"You can feel, sweet thing," he says, voice syrupy honey, pillowed to accommodate your nerves. "Wanna feel?"
Oh, horrible, awful Dean. He's making you sick. You love him tons.
"Okay," you whisper. "Yes, please."
Something about his demeanor eases, and you shuffle on your feet. He settles your hand back on his arm and you indulge in feeling the muscle, too struck to do anything other than squeeze and sweep up and down his skin. A big palm pushes on the small of your back and his forehead bumps to the soft swell of your stomach, breathing in.
He's everywhere and all over, it's nearly too much.
"You, um. Have nice muscles."
He huffs. It bleeds through your shirt. "Thanks, angel. You can touch 'em whenever you want."
⟢ dean calls you every night whilst he's away on a hunt. his exhaustion doesn't matter to him, he puts off showering and eating until he hears your voice and gets the confirmation that you're doing okay, you're safe back home, and he doesn't need to worry so much. he messages you a lot, too, because he can't get enough!
hey baby. just checking in. got about two hours left on the road.
made it to the motel. stinks in here. miss you.
you look pretty. can't see you but i can tell.
⟢ he packs your sweater in his duffel, something soft and soothing that smells like you. your subtle fragrance that he loves, and he won't ever admit it, but he keeps it tucked against his pillow and pretends you're with him as he curls into the lonely motel bed. too hot without you to take his extra warmth.
thinking about you. i'm too warm and you're probably asleep
i love you a shit ton and i don't say it enough.
i love you baby
⟢ often, he'll pass by a small thrift or antique shop and think of you. he gets something small, a weathered pin or figure or a pretty, shimmering marble. it's the thought that counts, he tells himself, but you'll love it no matter how small. he knows what you love and how you love, in such a special way that allows you to love him.
a tiny anything will do just fine.
⟢ he hugs you too tight when he returns. wedges his nose beneath your ear to breathe in that lovely smell, spreads his warm hands against the small of your back and traces up the center. basks in the feel of your arms around his middle, and almost forgets the gift in his denim pocket.
he nearly keels over at the sight of your shining grin as he hands it out to you and vows to never leave someplace without you beside him ever again.
fluff, comfort ノdean taking care of his sleepy partner ࿐ ࿔
cw use of baby, sweetheart, angel, pretty <3
⟢ it's quite easy for dean to tell when you're worn out. your movements are slow, sluggish, like you're moving through a vat of tar. you'll blink heavy, talk all quiet, and he knows you need to lay down. so he'll grasp your waist beneath gentle, splaying hands and bend to meet your eyes.
"you need a nap, baby, come on."
"wanna lay down with me? we'll watch that show you like."
if you're stubborn about it,
"please, sweetheart. for me."
⟢ he doesn't ever like to wake you when you've fallen asleep, it makes his heart hurt something awful. if you ever fall asleep on him, he'll stay inhumanly still. if you've been on the road and doze off in the passenger seat, he turns the radio on low and carries you out of the car once he parks.
"hold onto me, angel," he'll murmur, coaxing your arms over his shoulders, "yeah, like that. let's get you inside."
⟢ sometimes he'll find you already in bed, reading an old lore tome with a drooping expression. blooming blue wedges into the soft dip of your undereye, he needs to get you sleeping. and so he clambers over you and plucks the book out of your hands, tosses it aside. big, warm arms circle your middle and he buries his face against the slope of your neck.
"smell so good," he breathes. "gonna fall asleep, pretty?"
he feels your nod, hears the breathy, lazy hum you give. your arms will wrap over his back and smooth over the dips of muscle there, and he'll sigh out. more than content to have you sleeping soundly beneath his weight.
summary: first anniversaries are meant to be special, something you'll remember forever. you'll certainly remember this one, though maybe not for the right reasons
pairing: dean x reader (gn) | genre: sad hurt/comfort | word count: 3.7k
warnings: forgetting anniversaries, some tears, a lot of guilt and shame and apologies, dean feels really damn bad about it
notes: requested !! i'm sorry about how long it took me to get to this one 😭also for those who don't like sad endings; there's a part two on the way for you loves :]
part 2 | taglist
When you wake up, Dean’s not there.
You’d fallen asleep in his arms last night, head resting on his chest and listening to the sound of his breathing. It skipped like an old record every time nightmares flashed in his mind, but it always evened out eventually, like even in his sleep he knew you wouldn’t let anything hurt him. Now, you’re in bed alone, your arms wrapped around a pillow instead of Dean’s body. The sheets on his side are rumpled like he’s been tossing and turning, but they’re stone cold, so cold you might have been convinced he was never there at all. The only hint that he’d ever been in bed is the faint remains of his shampoo on his pillowcase, and a torn piece of paper on the bedside table, a note written in his heavy scrawl.
Out today. Not a hunt, but something Sam wants to check out just in case. I’ll be back before dinner. See you when I’m back. – Dean
Your chest tightens on instinct, head hammering at your ribs like it’s trying to escape. You’d hoped that maybe he was just in the library or the kitchen, having woken up after a bad memory, not wanting to wake you no matter how many times you tell him it’s okay. You sink back into the bed, sheets bunched around your hips, not enough energy left to care about fixing them. You bury your face further into the pillow, hoping that maybe with enough pressure, the aching feeling in your heart will flood out through your body and leave you alone; the aching reminder that you’ve been forgotten.
It’s not unlike Dean to take off on hunts or research excursions with Sam, because he can’t stay cooped up in a building for long before he goes crazy. He’d stopped asking you to go on these missions ages ago, because he knows you’d rather stay in unless it’s a real hunt; you’ve gotten better at picking and choosing your battles recently, only putting yourself on the line when it really matters. Being left behind in the bunker isn’t what’s causing that thorny pulse of pain behind your eyes every time your heart beats to the tune of Dean’s voice. What is, is the fact that he’s chosen today of all days to head out.
Today, last year, Dean was sitting beside you on the hood of the Impala, back resting against the windscreen and long legs stretched out over the hood. You were beside him, one hand hovering a half inch away from his like it wanted to be held but didn’t have the voice to ask for the touch. Dean had known anyway, because he knows everything about you without even trying. He’d taken your hand, pressed a faint kiss to your knuckles, and asked if you were doing this for real. The stolen dates, the motel room kisses, long drives with your head on his shoulder; daring to live the fantasy hunters never got. You’d agreed, weight lifting from your shoulders, and you’ve never seen Dean look more hopelessly in love than he had in that very moment.
You weren’t expecting anything fancy today, on an anniversary between two hunters who’ve only been dating a year and have been preoccupied with saving the world. Maybe waking up in his arms would have been nice; it would have given you the chance to press sweet kisses to all his freckles while he pretended to complain about it. Maybe you’d have made breakfast together, spent whatever time during the day you could afford to waste watching movies that weren’t good but that reminded you of a simpler time. Maybe you’d have convinced him to go out for dinner with you, taken a walk afterward, come back to the bunker in time to give him his gift.
The gift that’s been sitting in your dresser drawer for three months, the one you’d had to go out of your way to track down. Something he’d mentioned off-handedly a while ago and that had never quite left your mind, like a bug bite that never went away. It certainly feels like one now, a mosquito bite to your heart that drinks the blood from your veins in hopes you’ll be drained empty before the disappointment kills you. The lingering feeling in your chest that’s been a backdrop to your entire life starts up again, screaming louder and louder until all you can hear in your head is a devilish chorus of your failure, of how little you’re worth to Dean.
Somewhere deep in your heart, you’re convinced he could never forget. Dean remembers your birthday every year, remembered it even before you could really call yourself friends. He remembers Sam’s birthday, and Bobby’s, even a couple other ones of people he’s met along the way and had to pass by. An anniversary is enough like a birthday, you think. Unlikely he’d forget, especially considering how important this is. A year of your love proving to be stronger than whatever it is you hunt, a year where you can love someone and not have that put a bright target on your back for a werewolf’s claws or a wraith’s spike.
Last year on your birthday, he’d pulled a similar trick. Dean and Sam had appeared in your doorway that morning with breakfast and quick birthday wishes before heading off on a hunt courtesy of Jody. You’d called her yourself with the intent of asking her to let Dean come back to you, but before you could even say a thing, you’d immediately clocked the distress in her voice. Turns out Jody’s just as good an actor as the women on TV; Dean had taken Sam with him to get your birthday gift from Jody’s house and brought her to your birthday dinner, all three of them conspiring together with the intent of keeping you in the dark.
Maybe that’s just what he’s done this time, you pray to yourself, rolling over in bed and grabbing your phone from the table. The bunker hums around you; perhaps agreeing with your conclusion, perhaps warning you not to get your hopes up. A pipe creaks somewhere when your mind drifts to the heavy prospect of Dean forgetting, and you hope it’s just coincidence. You’re already having a rough week, what with the end of the world and all, and you really don’t need Dean’s forgetfulness making it worse. You know he’d never forget on purpose, but you’d expect him to put a little more weight into remembering.
Unlocking your phone, there’s a voicemail from Dean and an unread text from Sam. You read the text first, finding it’s only a notice to let you know they safely got to where they needed to be. You send a reply back, noting Sam reads the message. You listen to the voicemail next, the low rumble of Dean’s voice made sharper by the phone.
Hey, uh, leavin’ you this to let you know ‘m sorry for leavin’ without tellin’ you. Didn’t wanna wake you up, ‘s all. You’ve had a, uh, a rough week so…anyway. I’ll be back before dinner like I said. Not doin’ anythin’ dangerous. I, uh. Yeah. See you soon, sweetheart.
Your heart sinks a little. Even in the voicemail, Dean leaves no inkling of your anniversary. You’re tempted to call him back and even ask him if he remembers, but the weight in your heart is just too heavy, and pushing in the buttons for Dean’s number feels like it’ll take more energy than you can afford to spend. Eventually, when your body feels too weighed down by the mattress to feel useful, you haul yourself upright with the intent of seeking out a shower and something to eat.
Dean’s voicemail rings in your head as you shower, filling up the bathroom until the words bounce around the shower walls enough times to sound like a new language. Maybe he’s just being evasive, maybe he’s just trying to keep you distracted and thinking he’s forgotten. Maybe he’s really ended up on a hunt, and if that’s the case, there’s not much you can do; monsters don’t care much for sentimental romantic occasions, although you find yourself wishing they did. Down the drain goes Dean’s shampoo, and with it goes most of your worries. Keeping yourself distracted is your best bet for today.
When you enter the kitchen, your eyes drift to the still-wrapped flowers sitting on the counter. The ones you’d bought yesterday evening for Dean, because you remember him telling you that “guys don’t get flowers, sweetheart”. They do if they’re Dean Winchester, you’ve decided. Fingers peeling back the paper, you take them out of the bag and lay them out, separating the stalks from each other and untangling the leaves with a strange sort of care. You don’t have a proper vase to put them in, so you make do by splitting them into two smaller bundles; one for the bedroom, and one for the kitchen table.
You spend the next hour arranging them, removing the wilted leaves from the stalks and tossing them into a bin, then trimming the stalks so they can get adequate water. The petals still look good, still bright and vivid, the light scent of the lilies flooding your senses until all you can think of is the way Dean’s freckles look like the pollen dusted on the inside of the flowers. You place one bundle in a tall cup nobody uses, setting it on the kitchen table and wiping the bottom to prevent condensation from piling up under the glass.
The second bundle goes to the bedroom, finding its way to Dean’s bedside table and resting patiently, awaiting his return. This group of flowers is the smaller group, and you’ve squeezed two into each of the four cleaned and dried beer bottles you’re using for a vase. It’s makeshift and not at all as gorgeous as you were planning, but there’s something so intrinsically Dean that it makes you grin in spite of yourself. You have half a mind to tie some ribbon on the bottlenecks, but you don’t have any and you’re all out of creative alternatives now.
After scrounging around the cupboards for lunch, you settle on making the boys dinner. The least you can do is prove to them you’re grateful for them, and it’s the least you can do for Dean; make him something home cooked, a reminder that you haven’t forgotten the day, that it still carries a weight to you. A weight that buries itself deep in your stomach and makes you wish you’d never learned to put a word to your emotions, but a weight nonetheless. A tidal wave that’s been out to sea and slowly starting to creep back in, the closer the clock ticks to Dean’s homecoming. One that pulls at you with awful, tangled hands and gnarled fingers and threatens to drown you in doubt.
You work in silence, not even bothering to click a cassette tape into the radio for accompaniment. You listen to the sounds of the bunker as you work, a choir to go along with the noises of your cooking; hums of the water heater when you fill a pot on the stove and wash the vegetables, ticks of the gas stove turning on to boil the broth and cook the meat, floorboards creaking under your feet as you reach for the dishes you need. It’s a dance you’ve done a hundred times before alone, and a hundred times more with Dean as your dance partner, but you’ve never danced it with the lingering anxiety of love weighing heavy on your heart. It slows your steps until everything comes a second late, it makes your movements stiff and choppy that shows when the vegetables are cut too big. It’s creeping into every corner of your life today, and all you can hope is for Dean to come home soon and quell the storm.
By the time the meat’s cooked and thrown into the pot with everything else, you can hear heavy footsteps and light chatter on the stairs. The door slams behind them and Dean curses the wind, although you both know it was really just his carelessness. He does this every time; it’s how you can tell them apart, because Sam closes the door like something holy in comparison. You set some of the meat aside of the soup for Dean, something extra as a gift, a treat to him for being yours.
You look up when their footsteps near the door, ladling the soup into bowls and setting them out. Dean walks in, still in his coat and boots, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and kissing the side of your head. His stubble scrapes your cheek, making you smile slightly and you kiss him back.
“You survived,” you comment.
“Damn right. Told you nothin’ bad was gonna happen.”
You make a noise in agreement, turning back to the soup. You push Sam’s bowl in his direction, and he takes it gratefully, murmuring his thanks. He hesitates, only entering when you raise an eyebrow. He doesn’t say anything, not wanting to disturb your and Dean’s space as he gets himself a glass of water, taking a beer from the fridge for later.
“Looks good, sweetheart,” Dean says, peering over your shoulder.
“I should hope so.”
Dean smiles. “What’s the big occasion?”
Sam stops in the doorway, eyes wide as he turns back to Dean. Sam gives you a sympathetic look as he takes off down the hall, clearly not wanting to be in the middle of this. Your heart sinks at the words; Dean really doesn’t remember what day it is today. He’s really forgotten your anniversary. You swallow heavy around the emotion in your throat, words caught somewhere between your brain and tongue. Dean’s brows furrow, eyes drifting around the kitchen until they come to rest on the flowers.
“Oh-. Shit. I’m-. I’m so-. It’s-,” he stutters.
“Yeah…” you whisper, cracked.
Dean tries to say something else, mouth working and Adam’s apple bobbing, but nothing comes out. His hand tightens once on your shoulder before it drifts off, like he needs you close but doesn’t know if you’ll let him touch you. His hand reaches for yours and you pull back slightly, rubbing at your eyes that have stayed strangely dry.
“I-,” Dean starts.
“Save it, Dean. You forgot.”
You don’t intend for it to come out mean, but it does anyway. You feel the way Dean shrinks back like you’ve hit him.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for it to sound like that,” you say, turning the stove off and turning toward him.
“’S okay. I deserve it,” he mumbles, face red from embarrassment.
“You don’t deserve me snapping,” you say.
“I forgot our anniversary. ‘Course I deserve that.”
You look at him, really look at him. There’s something that looks like shame in his eyes, swimming amongst the green. It is shame, you realize, but it’s so raw and deep that you almost don’t recognize it as a human emotion. You can already see the way he’s blaming himself, thinking of a hundred things he should’ve done differently, praying you’ll still love him after this.
“Dean?” you ask, resting a palm on his shoulder.
He doesn’t reply, but he looks at you with those pitiful eyes that say a million apologies without saying any words.
“C’mon, I have something for you.”
You take his hand in yours, leading him off to your bedroom. Dean hesitates, like he’s unsure if he’s allowed to be in your shared space after this, but when you tug on his hand, he trails after you like a puppy on your heels. His footsteps follow yours like an echo, your own sadness amplified and shared to the world through him. You push him in before you, closing the door quietly behind your back and striding to the dresser while Dean sits himself heavily on the bed.
Gift in hand, you sit yourself down beside him, shoulder brushing, one of your thighs resting alongside his denim-covered one. His hand twitches toward your leg before pulling back again, settling desolately in his lap. You press the small cardboard box into his hand, folding his fingers around it with a care you’re certain Dean’s not expecting you to use.
“What’s this about?” Dean asks quietly, turning the box over.
“Anniversary gift.”
“Don’t-.”
“Dean, please don’t fight me on this. Whether you remembered or not, it’s still our anniversary, right?”
He nods, shame crawling up his neck.
“Then let me give you your gift. I still love you, Dean, so open your damn gift.”
Dean allows himself a small smile, breaking the box’s seal with his nail and opening the end. Inside, he finds a bracelet with a protective charm on it; because of course, some part of it has to be practical. Both you and Dean will be damned if you don’t give each other some sort of weapon or protective charm every year, because even when you’re apart, it means more than anything to know you’re being kept safe by each other’s love. He picks up the bracelet, examining it before carefully sliding it over his wrist. You do up the clasp, and he tests the tightness, nodding when he’s satisfied it won’t cause him pain.
It’s what’s under the bracelet that makes him inhale a sharp breath. A couple of tickets to a music festival trailing across the country, that just so happens to be making a stop a few hours away from you. Dean doesn’t care for most of the acts; just some recent artists he’s never bothered to listen to, nor will he ever. A few of the headliners catch his eye, some bands he remembers from when he was a kid playing on the Impala’s radio. But what matters more is the fact that for one, there’s two tickets, which means you’re coming with him whether you want to or not. And two, it means he’s finally going out and doing something normal, something he’s always wished he could do. It’s just a shame he has to find this out after forgetting what he’d been begging himself not to forget for the last year.
“You-,” he starts.
“Yeah. Thought you should get to have something fun for once.”
His hands shake as he places the tickets back in the box. “How’d you even get these?”
You shrug. “I have my ways. Don’t worry about that.”
“I’m-. I’m sorry, I don’t have anything for you,” he whispers, low and broken.
“It’s okay, Dean. Really. It’s fine.”
He catches your head in his hands, the box going tumbling to the floor. “It’s not fine, and you know it. Don’t go saying things like that.”
You swallow. Dean stares. Something low in your heart stabs your chest and cracks it open, threatening to flood you with shame. Both of you want to make a move, and neither of you feels like moving.
“I just-. I promise I remembered yesterday. I really did. I was thinkin’ about what I was gonna do with you today and then it just-.”
“Slipped away?” you fill in.
“Y- yeah. Somethin’ like that. Had a whole damn plan too. Kept thinkin’, ‘don’t mess this one up’.” He gives a hollow laugh. “Guess I really screwed this up, huh.”
You lean together so your foreheads are touching. “You did. I won’t pretend you didn’t. I mean, Sam remembered.” You emphasize your point by showing him the note that’s been slipped under your door since the evening went sideways; something in Sam’s handwriting, short and sweet, just a simple happy anniversary you two. Dean’s inhale cracks around a sob.
“Can-. Do-. Are we…are we done?” he says, frightened.
“Are we-. What?”
“Are we done? Did-. Have I screwed it up too bad?”
Your heart stops. Your Dean, sweet and kind and soft under all the hard edges, recognizes this pattern. He’s seen it before; he lets people down, people die, they come back, he lets them down again. A vicious cycle over and over that dunks his head in cold water. Usually, you’re there to towel it off and hug the life back into his body. He doesn’t know what to do now that it’s you he’s broken.
“Oh, Dean,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Dean, we’re not over.”
He swallows thickly. “But I forgot.”
You nod. “You did.”
“And I hurt you.”
“You did.”
“But you’re not-. We’re not breakin’ up?”
You shake your head. “No.”
Dean’s shoulders shake. “Why not? Isn’t that what people do?”
You heart cracks in two. Of course he’d assume that, you think. Anyone he’s ever accidentally hurt has always left him.
“Because I still love you, Dean. And because I know you didn’t mean it. And because I think you can fix this.”
“I can?”
You nod. “You’re good at fixing things.”
Dean buries his head in your shoulder, rocking side to side with his arms locked around you.
“Promise I’ll fix it. God, I’ll do anything you want. I’m gonna fix this, sweetheart,” he murmurs into the side of your neck, repeating it over and over again like a prayer.
You card a hand through his hair, the gesture as soothing for him as it is for repairing your bruised heart. You gently kiss the top of his head, hoping that the love you hold for him is enough to will away the pain and anger and frustration that you know is killing him inside. The poison in his heart that comes from how he never lets himself be forgiven is still pooling in there, and you know you’re going to be doing your best to make sure it washes away under your touch.
hiiiii!!! LOVE all your work (and am truly amazed at your dedication to posting everyday). APOLOGIES IF YOU HAVE ALREADY DONE THIS but if you haven’t, would you ever do a possessive!dean request? would love your thoughts and opinions, esp if you did early seasons, older, MOC or demon, or even retired (a girl can dream)….. 🥹
✦ possessive!dean winchester — the many versions ✦
𓂃 early seasons dean (cocky, reckless, emotionally terrified)
possessiveness shows up as teasing first. his arm slung over the back of your chair. leaning a little too close when someone else talks to you.
he’s not aware of it at first. it’s instinct. territorial in the way a guard dog doesn’t realize it’s guarding.
if another hunter flirts with you, dean just smiles wider. steps closer. “hey sweetheart, you ready?” suddenly you’re leaving with him.
lots of subtle claiming gestures: hand on your lower back, guiding you through crowds.
when he realizes he actually cares, it scares the hell out of him. that’s when the jokes get heavier. deflection central.
but the look in his eyes when someone touches you? sharp. immediate. unmistakable.
𓂃 older / later seasons dean (protective, deeply attached, softer than he admits)
this version of dean is quietly possessive. less bravado, more certainty.
he doesn’t interrupt conversations anymore, but his presence shifts the room. people just know.
his hand automatically finds your waist when you walk into a room together.
he checks in constantly without making it obvious: “you good?” low voice. just for you.
if someone disrespects you, dean doesn’t yell. that’s the scary part. his voice goes calm. and suddenly the room feels smaller.
he trusts you completely. the possessiveness isn’t about control. it’s about fierce loyalty.
𓂃 mark of cain dean (intense, dangerous, emotions turned up to eleven)
this is the most visceral version of possessive dean.
everything about him is sharper: the way his eyes track people around you, the tension in his shoulders.
physical closeness becomes grounding for him. his hand gripping your wrist lightly, thumb moving without him noticing.
he hates when you’re in danger. not in the usual hunter way. it feels personal now.
if someone threatens you? the reaction is immediate and brutal. sam has to step in more than once.
but with you, he’s strangely gentle. almost careful. like you’re the one thing keeping him human.
𓂃 demon dean (dark, indulgent, openly territorial)
demon dean doesn’t hide it. at all.
if someone flirts with you, he laughs. low. amused. “bold move.”
he pulls you close in front of them, like he’s proving a point.
lots of open claiming gestures: arm around your shoulders, fingers hooked in your belt loops.
he enjoys the reaction it gets out of you. the blush, the surprise, the way you look at him.
there’s a playful danger to it. he knows exactly how intense he is.
𓂃 retired dean (domestic, healed, still a little territorial)
this dean is the softest version… but the possessiveness never disappears.
it just turns warm.
his hand resting on your thigh while he drives. absentminded, automatic.
if someone compliments you, he smiles proudly instead of getting defensive.
but if someone crosses a line? he steps closer. arm around you. “we’re heading out.”
retired dean isn’t threatened by the world anymore. he’s just protective of his peace.
and you’re a huge part of that peace.
✦ dean possessive aesthetic
leather jackets draped over your shoulders • impala keys pressed into your palm like a vow • whiskey kisses that taste like “forever” • bruised lips and hickeys hidden under collars • “say it again” growled against your throat • green eyes that burn when anyone else looks your way • protecting you like it's his last hunt • loving you like he'll lose you tomorrow • because in his world? he might.
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summary talks of a gala. dean tries on suits and looks super pretty!
content gn!reader, quiet, odd!reader. younger dean (nineteen, early twenties). super big crushes and a small town mall, two seconds of a very shirtless dean and many butterflies. use of sweetheart and angel!
odd!reader masterlist .ೃ࿔*:･
Dean being Dean, owns no formal wear. Heaps of worn band tees and a rotation consisting of two pairs of sturdy jeans, one ripped at the knees. He's got metal rings and bracelets and a couple necklaces. The flower crowns you've given him, some fresh and some drying out on his window sill. But no suits and no ties and definitely no loafers.
The mall is his last and only hope.
It's old and wilting. A generational staple in South Dakota, it's been around for seemingly ages and smells like musky, floral perfume all over. Lots of the stores have been closed up for good, but there's a nearly empty Macy's to Dean's benefit, and an ice cream parlor down the way to yours.
He's dragged you along with the claim of needing expert advice, and you're really not sure what about you makes him think you're knowledgeable on varied formal wear. But it had been easy to accept his pleas, easier to climb into Baby, and the easiest to sit and watch him try on all these fancy clothes.
He looks very handsome in them. This particular undershirt is a little too much of a see-through white that hugs at his chest nicely, you think it's the third he's tried on and the tightest yet. You shift in your seat behind him and he stands grumpily before a tall mirror, hands clumsy and working at the collar.
"Looks fuckin' stupid, right?" he huffs.
You shake your head too fast.
"It looks nice, Dean. Why does it have to be perfect?"
"'Cause a gala's like… a super obnoxious prom. I've gotta fit in with the bigwigs."
"Oh. I never went to prom."
He turns around quietly to face you with a soft sigh. But he looks a lot less troubled as his gaze meets yours. A small ache in the pit of his chest as he imagines you all pretty and dancing against him, he wishes he would've taken you.
"That's a good thing. Prom's for losers, anyway," he says, and nods towards your lap. "Hand me one?"
You look down at the array of ties strewn over your thighs, all picked by you. A classy red one stares back and you reach it out to him. His fingers brush yours as he takes it.
"Why're you going to this, again?" you ask.
"Some… haunted vase needs destroying, or something. I've gotta do super cool, like, ninja stuff to get it."
Your lips round in an 'o' and you think of him jumping over lasers. And then of him in the fancy mansion, surrounded by equally fancy people. There'll probably be pretty paintings on the walls, or tapestries, old statues scattered around. Carved fountains that spring up warm water, a big garden full of tall flowers and leaves.
That part sounds very lovely.
"And I can't come?" your question is soft.
He clicks his tongue, distracted in an attempt to knot the tie. "Bobby doesn't want you going, sweetheart."
"Would it not be safe?"
The tie falls loose and he curses under a short breath.
"Well, no, it- it's high security."
You toss the remaining ties onto the arm of the waiting chair and stand with butterflies. Stepping up to Dean, he smells like warm amber and faded, boyish cologne. He blinks at you owlishly when your fingers reach up to fuss at the tie for him, your knuckle grazes his neck.
Sparks and jolts all over.
"Then maybe I could go. I don't need his permission, anyway," you murmur, forcing your gaze to stick. You can feel him staring.
It's daunting. Lovely to know he's looking at you, because it must mean he likes to, but daunting all the same because your cheeks are warm now. There's a buzz in your heart that thrums steady at the feel of his soft breath fanning your forehead.
"You'd really wanna go to this thing?"
"Will there be a garden?"
"Maybe," he supplies, a big hand coming up to your back to give an affectionate few pats. "Sweetheart, it's gonna be busy. Lots of snobby people. You don't like those."
You tip your head up to see his prettiness, hands falling. So professional, you think, in the dark tie and button-up and suit jacket. Still wearing his jeans, because he insists he'll just borrow a pair of Bobby's old slacks.
Very handsome. A swath of tan from the sunshine over the curve of his nose and turning to catch himself in the mirror, he smooths down his chest and you hope that nothing you feel is outwardly visible. He's used to your usual awkwardness. Any more and he'll start to wonder if you're alright.
You remember yourself, "But I'll be with you. And I wanna see the garden."
"What if there isn't one?"
"Then there won't be a garden and I'll still be with you."
The silence that stretches as he gazes blankly at his reflection makes you shuffle on your feet beside him. Maybe you've said it too intimately, but you've told him a plethora of sweet things like that. He's being weird, you decide, to avoid overthinking.
But then he's looking at you again, fit with a charmed smile and shining eyes as he displays his new threads, and it's hard to think about him a normal amount.
"Do I look douchey enough?" he asks. His canine glints.
Not at all. You nod. "I think so."
Everything is a hazy, warm flurry as he chucks off the jacket and discards the button-up to reveal bare, smooth chest and abdomen. You smile at the way he messily curls into his faded tee to get it on and wait patient as he goes to pay for the rentals.
He's an award-winning motion picture walking back to you. Silhouetted by flickering, yellowed fluorescents that he manages to suit, being ethereal must come easy. He spins the plastic bag of clothing in his grip and takes place by your side to whisk you away from the Macy's and all of her old smells.
You're happy to fall in step beside him, natural in the way your shoulders bump every few paces. "Can we go get some ice cream now?"
He takes your hand. So many fluttery, swirling things flourish inside of your stomach, you may keel over before you can get your waffle cone.
"Yeah, angel. Come on. I'm craving double chunk fudge."
❤︎
i've fallen ill to the unavoidable weekly writing style crisis i feel as though everything i'm writing sounds so repetitive and lame but i'm hoping i'll recover from this ailment soon so that the next fic sounds nicer!
im still alive lol but i just wanted to say sorry for being mia! i have lots of ideas but w school + other things, motivation is lacking. i believe i write better when i wanna genuinely let my creative mind unfold and thats not happening right now. however, i should hopefully be back in business soon! if u made a req i will get to them eventually promise :)
pairing: dean x reader (gn) | genre: soft smut (mdni) | word count: 4.0k
warnings: soft dean, soft smut (fingering both receiving, unprotected sex (be careful !!), dean's sweet aftercare, dean and reader are not virgins), a respectable amount of kisses and cuddles, dean finally gets to feel safe
notes: felt like i was losing my style for a hot minute there, but we back with this one guys !!!!
sam's version | taglist
Rain patters softly on the bedroom window of your apartment. The curtains are closed over it, hiding the drops trailing down the glass in a race to the bottom nobody’s timing, light material fluttering each time someone walks past them. They cast gentle shadows on the floor that grow longer as the evening wears on, stretching out toward the bed until they hit the golden halos of the lamps. Bedsheets brush delicately against the floor, a handshake to the shadows, pale grey material meeting pale grey darkness at the borders of light. Dean’s leather jacket hangs on a hook on the back of your closed bedroom door, at rest for the first time in what must be years, the stress of the job bleeding from the leather like the rainfall on the window.
Dean is stretched out beside you on the bed, comfortable and safe, caught in a rare moment of leaving his guard down. He can do that around you, because his desire to keep you in the dark about the monsters he hunts outweighs the stress of spilling his secrets to you. Last time he was here, you’d given him permission to carefully carve protective sigils into the baseboards with the promise of repaying your landlord for the damage when you move out. Nothing will get past that rainy window or the soft shadows or the edges of grey bedsheets. Nothing will get past the jacket on the door and the cocoon of warmth that surrounds the room in a bubble. He can let himself be human here, in your space, where your touch reminds him he’s more than the ghosts of his past, more than the failings of his father and the parent of his brother.
You, the most angelic part of Dean’s life of sin, are the only reason he hasn’t bolted already. He couldn’t possibly leave you for hunting, not when you look up at him with those pretty eyes that want him to see the good in life. Every time he spooks and fears for your safety, your voice brings him back again into your open arms, holding him close to your chest and whispering praise over his heart. You’re pure, sweet and gentle, good to him in ways he thinks he doesn’t deserve but will always accept from you. You don’t make it demeaning or weak to crave your affection; you make it feel like there’s nothing more important to life than kissing your cheek and holding your hand on walks in the park.
Right now, there’s nowhere he’d rather be than cradled in the calmness of your bedroom. The walls are close enough to bring safety, yet far enough and light enough to keep the suffocation away. The floor is cold, but not enough to make Dean wonder about ghosts; just the temperature all floors get when the furnace is temperamental and flighty. The lamplight is just bright enough he can make out all the features of your face, from the curve of your nose down to the dimple of your chin, and he finds himself repeatedly tracing his fingers over them like it’s a ritual. There’s a movie on the TV, something soft and heartwarming you’d chosen earlier, but Dean’s more focused on you than the storyline.
You’re tucked to his chest, head resting in the crook between his shoulder and neck, one hand curled faintly over his heart. Your hair tickles his chin, getting caught in the tiny scab on the underside from where he’d cut himself shaving. Legs tangled together, your warmth covering him like the softest of blankets, your weight pushing him down into the plush of your comforter under his back. Dean has one hand behind his head propping him up, and the other is wrapped around your shoulders, stroking aimlessly up and down your arm through the fabric of your shirt. Thunder cracks somewhere distant, as far away as his worries, and you snuggle closer to his chest at the sound.
Faint voices ring from the TV, familiar conversation that’s typical of any chick-flick sort of show; confessions, unspoken promises, a tentative dedication to a life without fear. On screen, the main couple share a tender kiss, and Dean’s compelled to press one of his own to the top of your head, chapped lips brushing your hair. You huff a quiet laugh at Dean’s actions, and where he’d typically flush dark and cover it up with a joke, he kisses your head a second time, nuzzling his nose into your hair and inhaling your shampoo. It’s a faint scent, one that doesn’t draw attention to what doesn’t need a spotlight, but it’s something so quintessentially you that Dean can’t think of anything else. It’s his turn to chuckle quietly when your feather-light touch reaches his jaw, tilting his head down and kissing the curve of his lips. It’s quick, fleeting, and yet Dean feels like it’s lasted an eternity and more; maybe it will by the time he’s done replaying the moment in his head.
“Dean?” you ask quietly when you part.
“Hm?” he hums in return.
“You look good,” you say, stating it like simple fact.
Dean grins, eyes lighting up. “Don’t I always?”
You lightly smack his arm. “Well, yeah, but that’s not what I meant.”
Dean’s brows furrow in confusion. “What’d you mean, sweetheart?”
“You look…comfortable. Relaxed. You kinda look like you’re home, Dean.”
You say the words so simply, like that very notion doesn’t make Dean feel like he’s finally landed somewhere after decades of travelling. Your words go straight to his heart, nestling somewhere in the chambers and spreading warmly through his body.
“Yeah…guess I am. You do that, sweetheart,” he whispers, cracked.
Your arms tighten around him, holding him together through the sheer force of your love, the light of it seeping through the cracks in his soul and sealing them up. Dean’s a patchwork quilt of all the people he’s ever met, and right now, all the stitching comes from you. There’s a square in a soft purple from when he started kissing the bracelet you gave him as a good luck charm before hunts. Another one in bright orange that fell into place when he started calling you every night before he fell asleep so that the last thing you heard at night was his voice saying he loved you. It’s the very essence of you that holds him together when he’s broken and bent.
The couple onscreen shares an intimate moment, and instinctively, you tuck your face into Dean’s shoulder with a grimace that makes him laugh. He knows you’re not a virgin, knows you’re not afraid of the intimacy itself, but you’d explained once it feels like privacy invasion, Dean, I’m being polite. The scenes cut between tangled sheets and wide shots of the room, slow trailing camera movements up the curve of one body and down the lines of another, catching every slow kiss and tastefully avoiding every tender thrust.
“Hey, Dean?” you pipe up when the scene ends.
“Yeah?”
A soft pause while you collect your words, and Dean watches how your eyes dart back and forth as you think, irises catching the lamplight.
“Would…I-. D’you-. Would you want that?”
“What, the cheesy movie romance? I got that already.”
You smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I’m glad, but not what I meant. I meant-. D’you want more? With me?”
It clicks then what you’re asking. Somewhere, lost amongst the pouring rain and faraway thunder is the fear that he might not want you like that. That he might see you bare before him and panic, realizing you’re not good enough for him. Dean would be lying if he said he hasn’t had the same thoughts about himself; that maybe, when he’s stripped with your hands on his bare skin, you’d feel the rot in his chest and the poison in his bones. That maybe you’d realize he’s a broken, damaged man.
He realizes he’s been in his head for longer than he thought when you mumble an apology and start to roll off him. Something in his heart aches as your touch leaves him, and his hands rest gently on your forearms, halfway to pulling you back in.
“Hey, hey, where’re you goin’?” he murmurs.
“I just-. You didn’t answer, so I thought…”
He does pull you back this time, and you let yourself go into his arms. Dean brushes a thumb along your cheekbone, the tip of his finger grazing your eyelashes where they rest closed on your skin. A soft kiss to your temple, and he speaks again.
“Was just thinkin’, sweetheart, that’s all. ‘Course I want that. Wanted it for so long I forgot I could ask for it.”
Your mouth curves into a smile against his shirt. “I feel like there’s something you’re not saying.”
Dean goes quiet, unsure how much to say before he spills all his secrets to you. “’S just-. If we do it, I just don’t wanna scare you, ‘s all.”
You tip your head. “Why would you scare me, Dean?”
“’Cause I’m-. I got a lotta issues, sweetheart. Lotta scars and-.”
You cut him off with a kiss to his cheek that makes him sigh softly. “I don’t care about that, Dean. You’re still pretty.”
“Dunno,” he says, so quietly he hopes you might not hear.
You do, because of course you do. Just like he’s tuned to everything you do, you’re tuned to him. There’s a surge of happiness that floods him every time you notice when he’s hurting without him saying anything, when you bring him water without him mentioning his thirst. That rush is still there, now, only hidden, buried underneath a sort of shame and anxiety that twists at him and bites into him with sharp teeth designed to hurt.
“Can I?” you ask, fingers hesitantly trailing up his sides.
Dean hesitates, that anxiety humming below his skin at the same pace the raindrops hit your bedroom window. Something in your expression makes him break, though, and he sits up enough to give you access to what you want. You turn him so you’re straddling his lap, his back pressed against the wood of your headboard, soft pillow memorizing the curves of his spine in the process. Slowly, like you’re afraid to catch it on thorns, you reach your hands under the fabric of his shirt and work the material over his head, folding it and placing it at the bedside.
The room is chilly, and it makes goosebumps rise on Dean’s freckled skin. Instinctively, part from the cold and part from the shyness of it all, his arms cover his chest, hugging himself in the process. Your fingers wrap around his wrists, gently tugging his hands away from his body and cupping them in your own, softly kissing his knuckles. Your eyes sweep over his bare chest, taking in every curve and ridge, every mole and freckle and bump, every scar and still-fading bruise. You don’t hide away in fear or turn your back on him in shame. Instead, you whisper, in a careful voice.
“Dean, you’re beautiful.”
He realizes then, for the first time in his entire life, what the word ‘beautiful’ really means. It doesn’t mean pretty, or appealing to look at, gentle on the eyes and special to the soul. It doesn’t mean perfect, or lovely, or gorgeous, or anything else that could possibly hold the same weight. It’s heavier, smothered in the kind of love that comes from a word that encompasses flaws and makes them strengths. It’s taking in the torn state of his soul and patching it up, kissing each one of his scars and bruises and vowing to never let another one mark his skin.
And kiss them you do, starting at the purple spot on his collarbone and working your way down. Dean closes his eyes, head tipping back against the headboard as your journey of devotion trails across the planes of his chest. Lips brushing a bruise from a cupboard door, the half-moon scar of a witch’s nails, the impact left behind from a knife hilt. Old scars from hunts before he knew your name, new scars from missions in your honour, invisible scars that come with carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. You kiss each and every one of them, fingers soothing them over after with the kind of delicate care Dean’s only seen in movies.
“You don’t need t’do all that, sweetheart,” Dean says, low.
“I know.”
He frowns. “So why are you?”
You pause, picking your head up and staring at him with those bright eyes that remind him why he makes it out of hunts alive.
“Because I love you.”
Dean doesn’t realize a tear’s even fallen until you’re stretching up to kiss it away, the saltiness of his sorrows on your lips. His arms wrap tighter around you like he can press you into his chest and merge with you, keeping you close so he’d never worry about you when you’re apart. You keep your lips on his, pressing further into him until all he can taste is you and the world is narrowed down to the rain on your window mixing with the TV dialogue and your quiet sighs of pleasure.
His fingers drift under your sweater too, pulling it over your head and throwing it to the floor a couple of feet from the bedside, landing piled amongst the shadows that have crept longer with the late hour. Eyes returning to your bare chest, Dean’s breath catches. Because he’s always known you’re pretty, but now, he knows how pretty you are. The dips of your waist where they meet your hips, the divot between your collarbones that Dean stretches up to press an open-mouthed kiss to. Hands trailing down your back, he follows the line of your spine as far as he can, memorizing the shape of it like it’s the only thing keeping him breathing.
For a while, the only sounds in the room are light sighs of content and heavy breathing, the barely audible press of lips to skin the melody to which you and Dean move. Your thighs bracketing his is what he grounds himself in, the knowledge that you’re surrounding him entirely and leaving no room for him to fade away. His lips trail over your pulse points, down your neck and across your chest, and every touch of yours sends heat to the pit of his stomach, pooling butterflies ever lower. The movie ends, but neither of you bother to notice the credits rolling lazily across the screen; all that matters is bodies pressed together, deep wounds healed with each kiss.
Rolling your hips experimentally makes Dean whine softly against your mouth, a sound he’s almost embarrassed to make if it weren’t for it being you who dragged it out of him. His own hips buck slightly into yours, chasing the friction against his growing hardness in his sweatpants. Where normally he’d be ashamed of how quickly you’re working him up, he’s spurred on by the soft smile that graces your lips when you grind down on him. Your fingers dip beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, and Dean sucks in a harsh breath when you wrap your hand around his length.
“You alright?” you say at the sound.
“Yeah, ‘m good. Keep goin’.”
And keep going you do, timing each stroke of your hand to the beat of his heart. Each pass down, you swipe your thumb over his tip, and each pass up, your fingertips brush the coarse hair at his base. Dean can’t help the way his hips buck up into your hand, matching your pace as best he can, craving more, more, so much more. Your lips never stray far from his, swallowing the little moans he makes with each of your movements, the heat from your palm sinking deep into his skin and infiltrating the deepest parts of him.
“Wait, wait, sweetheart. Stop for a sec,” he pants.
Your hand leaves him immediately, coming up to his shoulder instead. “What’s wrong?”
Dean takes a moment to catch his breath before he locks his arms around you, palms out, and rolls you over, bracing you with his hands so he’s hovering over you.
“Want this to last. ‘M not gonna if you keep that up.”
You laugh softly, eyes crinkling at the edges in that way that’s written with affection. “What can I do?”
“Just lay back, baby, that’s all you gotta do.”
You let Dean’s walm palms lay you back, tucking into your pants and wiggling them down your legs and off. They fall somewhere else, separate from your shirt, no doubt retrieved in the morning by caring hands to be thrown in the wash. His fingers trail lower, down the plush of your stomach to your core, where he slowly works you open, careful not to push too hard. His eyes watch your face for discomfort, relishing the soft sounds that escape you at his ministrations.
Finally, you grab his wrist, slowing the movement of his hands. He takes it as the sign it is; shucking his sweatpants properly where they join yours in a tangled heap on the floor. Dean pumps himself once, twice, before lining himself up and pushing in. He’s slow, methodical in a way he usually wouldn’t be, but this is you under him. He has no choice but to be careful, because he would never damage someone he loves so much. You moan a broken sound when he bottoms out, and Dean drinks it up in a kiss that tastes like rainfall on windows and the edge between soft shadow and lamplight.
Each rock of his hips locks your legs tighter around his waist, heels digging into the dimples of his back. You lift up, changing the angle, letting him hit that spot deep inside you that makes you see stars in the shape of raindrops, and Dean can almost see them too with how good you make him feel. Your arms loop around his neck to pull him down, and he’s so close to you his chest nearly brushes yours with each thrust of his hips, bare skin on bare skin, warmth and heat and love.
A deep kiss that steals all the air from his lungs, and you’re coming, stomach muscles tensing under Dean’s hand and a breathy moan leaving you. Dean can feel the moment you go boneless in his grip, and he quickens his pace for just long enough to get himself over the edge with you, filling you with a rough groan against your shoulder. He slows his motions, bringing you away from oversensitivity, letting you fall back down into your body and relax, heart rate calming and breathing deep.
“Okay?” Dean whispers, afraid to break the comfortable silence that’s formed.
“Okay,” you whisper back.
“Gonna get you clean, m’kay?”
You nod, one last kiss to his lips before he pulls out slow, careful not to make it sting. His hand trails down your thigh before he disappears out your bedroom and into the bathroom down the hall, flicking on the light and searching for a cloth. He finds one on the top shelf of your towel rack, yanking it down and turning on the sink tap to let the water warm up. While he waits, he sorts himself out with tissue, cleaning himself off and throwing the tissues away.
When the water’s just warm enough to soothe your soreness and not enough to hurt, Dean sticks the cloth under the spray, soaking the white fabric. He wrings it out so it doesn’t drip on your floors, shaking it again for good measure, and pads carefully back to the bedroom. He knocks once on your doorframe in case you’re not ready for him yet, only opening the door when your sweet voice says his name like it matters.
“Hi, pretty,” Dean says when he walks back in.
“Hi, Dean,” you say sweetly.
He tests the warmth of the cloth against your thigh, and when you sigh comfortably at the touch and wiggle deeper into the mattress, Dean starts working away at you. He takes his time, almost as reverent in the aftercare as he is with sex, each motion designed specifically to make you feel important and special; because to him, you are. Once you’re cleaned up, Dean hands you his shirt from earlier, still faintly warm from his body heat. You slide it on gratefully, squeezing his hand once before he throws the cloth in your laundry basket.
“Comfy?” he asks, sliding into bed behind you and sorting out the blankets.
“Mhm. Hold me?” you reply.
Dean grins. “Thought you’d never ask.”
The blankets get pulled up to your shoulders, pillows adjusted so your head is resting on the softness of the down. Your mattress is the nicest Dean’s slept on in years, he realizes; probably not since he was living at the boys home, and this certainly beats that old ragged one. Your blankets are soft in a way that doesn’t overwhelm, puffy comforter laying across him with a weight that makes him sink into the heat, feeling cradled by the bed. Once he turns out the lamp, you slowly start to drop off into sleep, head migrating to Dean’s pillow as you try to get as close to him as you can.
Dean waits until you’re fully asleep before he lets himself drift off, because it’s so engrained in his soul that he can’t imagine doing it any other way. Your sleepy weight settling over him, his arms protecting you from things he can’t see, the rain still steadily tapping against the glass; it’s calm, soothing him into a restful sleep he hasn’t had in ages.
He wakes slow and gentle the next morning, blankets having fallen around his waist during the night. Morning sunlight streams through your window and through the veil of your curtains, a film over the pleasant day that is being built in the room. Shadows from last night gone, lamps still turned off and only natural, sunny warmth in the room, Dean feels right where he belongs. He feels the residual sleep living in his bones, and for once, he doesn’t feel like he needs to be somewhere right away; he can soak in the knowledge that he’s comfortable and safe, and he’s just had the best sleep of his life in your bed.
He startles for a moment when he realizes you’re not still in his arms like you were last night, bolting up and looking frantically around the room for you. The toilet flushes down the hall somewhere, your footsteps padding back after the sink runs, and Dean lets himself melt back into his earlier position with the knowledge you’re still alive, still safe, still his to love.
“Morning,” you say brightly when you notice he’s awake. “You usually sleep in this late?”
Dean groans something soft when he turns to look at the clock, seeing a striking 10:04 blinking back at him. “No, not usually. Sorry.”
You smile tenderly, climbing back into the space Dean leaves open for you, at his side with his arms holding your form until you fill it again. Once you’re tucked in and settled, you speak again.
“It’s not a bad thing, you know. Means you’re safe.”
Dean nods, not sure if he knows the right words to explain how right you are, and how much that means to him.
“Did you at least sleep well?” you ask.
Dean stretches his legs out, yawning in the process. “Haven’t slept that well in years, sweetheart. ‘S cause you’re here.”
You snuggle closer, and Dean feels your heartbeat through your chest.
“Guess I’ll have to stick around then,” you tease.
Dean hums, kissing your temple tenderly. “Guess you will.”
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