dean winchester x fem!reader
cw: hurt/comfort, john winchester's A+ parenting, physical abuse, john projecting hard, dean being absolutely whipped for you
wc: 6620 - read on ao3 here
a/n: this is the updated version, in case anyone coming across this has read my original post!! I had gotten into my head about whether I use too many metaphors, so I cut it down to an easy-to-swallow size. But fuck it, we ball *adds 3k to your Dean fic*
SWEET DREAMS
The Winchesters arrived in the middle of the night; a few blunt hits with a closed fist to the front door. Bobby Singer felt his heart jump in his chest.
Sweat coated his forehead and not just from the thick heat of summer still lingering in the house like an unwanted guest overstaying their welcome.
He abandoned the beer he'd been nursing and wiped the bottle's sweat into his jeans. Soon enough, the weight of his double-barrel shotgun soothed his anxiety that had reared its ugly head. He waited behind the closed door, weapon loaded and ready, until he heard Dean's voice call out to him.
They had agreed upon a code word to use, to make sure Bobby could trust whoever was on the other side could be invited in. One could never be too sure, after all. The old hunter lowered the gun, relieved he could end his day without a fight.
At first glance, Bobby was happy to see the boys, until he noticed a third silhouette amongst them. Immediately, the initial relief turned sour, like the thrill of finding leftovers buried at the back of the fridge, only for the first whiff to absolutely obliterate your joy.
He and John hadn't parted on good terms, last they'd seen each other. In fact, this meeting of theirs started like the last one had ended - with a shotgun in Bobby's hands. His grip around it tightened again.
Truth be told, if John Winchester had shown up on his threshold alone, Bobby might actually have shot him this time. From what he could tell, John may have contributed the tiniest bit to Sam and Dean's existence, but calling him their father was like calling a house fire a cradle.
Dean's eyes went back and forth between the two; tension strung so tight, he anxiously glanced at the gun Bobby still held.
“Hey man, promise we're no monsters. Unless you'd put a steak in front of me right now. I'd tear into that like a werewolf so quick.”
The boy was always quick to joke, to smooth over sharp edges. To take a hit in order to buffer the impact on the next person. Bobby felt something stir in his heart at the thought.
“I know we had our disagreements, but would you take in my boys for the night? I'll just sleep in the car.” John rasped.
The trio looked tired, obviously fresh off a hunt. Cuts and bruises, tousled hair, dirt and blood on their clothes, the usual. Bobby had to grasp at any remaining tolerance for irritating company he could find at his age. He hadn't seen Sam and Dean in a while and he was sure they'd appreciate some hospitality. Lord knew how rarely hunters were granted any.
“Don't get your panties up in a bunch about it, Winchester. The house is big enough for the both of us.” Bobby relented.
Dean breathed a sigh of relief. A smile darted across his face.
“Man, am I glad to see you,” He gave Bobby a quick hug, after the latter put the firearm in its usual place. “Damn Cullens almost ganked our asses.”
“Yeah, I can smell that.” Bobby quipped, patting Dean on the back.
The house hadn't changed from last time they'd visited. Floorboards creaked under their heavy boots, the refrigerator hummed its tune loud enough to drown out the cicadas outside, and the overhead light fixtures were matte with dust. Despite this, Sam let himself melt into one of the chairs nearby. Bobby gave his shoulder a squeeze, which granted him a groan from the youngest Winchester. Whether from pain or pleasure, Bobby wasn't quite sure.
One by one, they filtered into the kitchen, where they were handed a beer each. Everyone joined Sam in getting comfortable, except for his brother.
Dean stood, eyes gleaming with antsy desire for something, despite his obvious exhaustion. Like an itchy wound he tried not to scratch. It made him restless.
“Hey, uh… she home?” he asked, trying (and failing) to act nonchalant.
Sam raised an amused eyebrow at him. Dean's voice might've sounded normal, but his eyes betrayed him. They seemed to have more life in them, whenever you were the topic of conversation. Even when he was dead on his feet. But his index finger drumming on the dining table said more than any word ever could have.
“Yeah, she's upstairs.” Bobby said.
“Awesome.” Dean muttered more to himself, than anything, unable to suppress the corner of his mouth twitching with relief. He was halfway across the room when Bobby grabbed him by the back of the jacket.
“No, you don't. She needs to sleep and you're not gonna wake her up.”
Dean's eyes darted around the room, caught off guard. His smile was as fake as the smoothness in his voice.
“Oh, come on Bobby, I just wanna say hi.”
“I wasn't talking about no beauty sleep, dimwit. She's hurt.”
Dean's face sank. His brows furrowed. A quick glance at John reminded him not to sound too worried. But God, he struggled to hide it.
“What? What do you mean she's hurt? What happened?”
Sam, although concerned about you in his own way, couldn't help but notice his father stirring where he sat. The oldest Winchester looked displeased.
“She's gonna be fine. If you let her sleep it off.” Bobby assured, voice a little softer than before.
He knew more about how much the both of you meant to each other, than either of you had admitted to before this. Anyone who saw you exist in the same room together could tell just by how you looked at each other. The lingering glances, the concerned glimmer in your eyes when you patched Dean up after a hunt, the tension in his shoulders as he stood in front of Bobby right this moment.
“You didn't answer my question.” Dean cocked his head to the side, voice tight and irritated.
“You Winchesters and your thick skulls, I swear.” Bobby sighed, exhausted. “You're not the only hunters in this house.”
Dean's chest heaved, his eyes full of concern.
“You let her hunt by herself?”
“Did that vamp take a bite out of your brain earlier or do you really think I'm that stupid, boy?”
A beat passed between the two. Then-
“Sit down, Dean.”
As if caught with his fingers in the cookie jar, Dean seemed to realize he'd made a mistake when dropping his act. He was worried sick about you now, but the disapproval of his father weighed heavy on his shoulders. And he could always see it in John's eyes, hear it in his voice. Always.
“Yes, Sir.” Dean cleared his throat and did as he was told, the fire in his gut suddenly doused.
“She's gonna be okay, son,” Bobby offered, “a friend of mine came by a couple of days ago, ‘nother hunter; Said he got a case and needed all the help he could get.”
Dean's jaw worked a great deal. He looked up at John, though not quite into his eyes.
“Then why's she hurt that bad? Hell, if you give me the name of that friend of yours, maybe I'll have to stop by his place sometime and thank him for taking such good care of her.”
His voice had gotten louder and angrier toward the end.
“Don't act like you've never gotten hurt on a hunt, just ‘cause you had backup.”
“Bobby's right,” Sam agreed, “I mean, look at us, we got banged up and we're three people.”
“Yeah, but not so badly she wouldn't be allowed to wake me up with a-”
Sam kicked him under the table. His brother winced.
“You're acting a fool over that orphan Bobby took in? That it?” John made the word 'orphan' sound particularly repulsive.
Bobby fixed his eyes on him, sharp and unforgiving. The oldest Winchester held his gaze.
“Dad,” Sam cut in, before anyone else could, “she's not some stranger. She's family.”
John scoffed, eyes darting to his oldest. Dean took a swig of his beer, still unable to meet his father's judging eyes.
“Remind me who that girl is again.”
“She has a name!” Sam challenged his father head on.
“And…? Why'd you take her in again?”
Sam was thankful Bobby cared enough about him and his brother to tolerate John, even when it was obvious Bobby would have rather let the shotgun answer for him.
“Does it matter? She's been with me fifteen years.”
Unimpressed, John nodded. He looked over at Dean again, who sat across from him.
“She your little girlfriend?”
Dean's face went pale. Sam couldn't remember the last time his older brother looked the way he did right then: a deer caught in the headlights.
“No! She's just…"Dean forced down a big gulp of beer, fingers tapping on the bottle in his hands afterwards, “we're friends. Always good to keep in touch, just in case.”
John stood up from where he sat, his voice eerily quiet.
“Get up.” He commanded.
“Dad, what are you doing?” Sam asked, concerned.
“Your brother and I are going to take a walk really quick.”
“John.” Bobby rose from his seat, too. He put a hand on Dean's shoulder, pushing him back into the chair, “It's pretty late for a walk, don't'cha think?”
“What, you think he's scared of the dark?”
“Let me rephrase, Winchester: if you open that door, you will not step over this threshold ever again.”
If looks could kill, both John and Bobby would have been dead before their bodies hit the ground.
“Dad, come on, this isn't necessary. Let's all calm down an-” Sam tried.
“I said get up. That's an order.”
And Dean just couldn't help himself. He stood, as if under a spell. He blindly followed every command, because that's what had kept Sam and himself alive for as long as he could remember. Certainly since John had given him his first: to take care of Sam.
This particular tone of his father's voice was etched into him like the memory of his first kill under John's supervision. Like the groves and scratches on his handgun, which he could take apart and put back together in the dark. Like the heat of a fire.
Like the knowledge that this is what he was, what his father needed him to be - obedient and unquestioning.
John's orders had always been the Winchester's version of the Ten Commandments to Dean. And anytime his father had lectured and punished him after a fuck-up during a case, his words had ingrained themselves into Dean's skin with a vicious sort of weight.
A dutiful ritual; kneeling on yet another dirty motel floor, crumbs digging into him like grains of rice, while begging God for forgiveness before bed.
***
Outside, stars speckled the black tarp of night, not unlike air holes poked through a piece of cloth covering a jar. A choir of cicadas screamed into the vast emptiness above, blind to their inevitable demise.
Baby reflected the warm light coming through Bobby's windows. Beautiful and sleek as ever.
John led his son to where she was parked and Dean hoped they'd go on a little drive; talk it out like father and son. Like he and Sam did, too, sometimes. But, as usual, John was ready to disappoint.
“I thought I raised you to be a lot smarter than this.”
“What are you even talking about?”
His father's hands were balled into fists and Dean's stomach turned at the sight; An old, breathing polaroid in his shaking hands, nostalgia filling him with fear and bile. A repeating memory he had tried to avoid but could never escape.
“I wondered why you were so eager to jump on this case, despite the fact we could've taken up those werewolf tracks a few- what? Hours away from Charleston, where we stayed?”
“Since when is it a bad thing to hunt down a whole nest of vampires? What's gotten into you?”
“You're asking me? I don't want my firstborn to get distracted and killed because he can't stop thinking about some random girl's legs around him!”
That gave Dean pause. John had never before been upset at him for being with a woman.
“Are you listening to yourself? I think about girls all the time and now it's a problem?”
“Don't bullshit me, Dean! You call her whenever you think I can't hear you. Always giving her an update on where we are at the moment. You wait until I'm in the bathroom or think I fell asleep. Makin’ sure she knows you're okay. And then you act like a damn mutt because she got hurt.”
A red-hot anger surged through Dean and coiled in on itself, ready to sink its fangs into living flesh; to tear it apart and make it bleed. Usually, he embraced this side of himself. While fighting monsters, offense always proved to be the best defense. Now, he stood before John.
“And letting someone know I'm okay is bad how exactly? Usually, that's what people do when you care about each other!”
John caught the verbal strike at him and the weight of his voice parried it immediately.
“Don't get smart with me, boy! She's not me or Sam, just some stray cat Bobby picked up off the side of the street!”
Before Dean knew it, he had his fist in John's collar.
“Don't you dare talk about her that way!”
“Look at yourself! You're acting like a goddamn teenager!”
“What the hell'd she ever do to you, huh?”
“Messed with my son's head to the point he thinks he's in love with some chick!” John shoved Dean away, brought distance between them before he continued. “You can't be with her, Dean! What'd you think is gonna happen here? You gonna knock her up and buy a house in Dallas and tend to some horses until you die? Live happily ever after?”
Exasperated, Dean ran his hands through his own hair. He couldn't believe his father was making such a fuss about you. Didn't he understand Dean was an excellent hunter, no matter what? Couldn't he see it?
“Of course not, dad! The hell's your problem? I'm a hunter, just like you, just like she is! We all know what this life is like! That there's no picket-fence-fairytale-happy-ending at the end of this road!”
Dean would have rather taken a dagger to the chest than admitted how much it hurt to agree with John on the matter. He'd only ever heard of a handful of retired hunters, because most of them didn't live to see the day.
Your relationship was in the hands of a merciless God, like a bug caught inside the glass cup of a child discovering what it means to have power over something smaller than themselves for the first time in their life.
“Then you're gonna stop whatever she made you think you have with each other and move on from it! No more phone calls, no more messages. We're leaving tomorrow morning and as far as I'm concerned? Stay away from Singer, too. Us Winchesters are better off by ourselves.”
“I can't believe you're being this stubborn! Bobby's our friend! They're both family!”
A heat slapped across Dean's face.
“If you say that one more time, it's not gonna be my palm anymore. We are family! Your mom, who got killed by a demon, was family. And we're gonna find this thing and get revenge; without you having your head up in the clouds, daydreaming about tying the knot. Did I make myself clear?”
Dean didn't answer. His veins were filled with molten lead, his pulse drummed in his ears so loud, he could barely hear John.
“Dean. Did I make myself clear?”
“You know, ‘m startin’ to think Sammy had a point.” He said.
“Say that again?”
“I just think you could cut me some slack, alright? I'm sorry about what happened to mom; I want this demon dead as much as you do! But you can't compa-”
Dean's back hit the metal of the Impala, abrupt and painful. The impact knocked the air out of his lungs.
“Do you think you're the first boy who sees a pretty girl bat her eyelashes and thinks what they got is special in some way? You think this shit's gonna last? I want to protect you from the pain that inevitably comes, when she gets ripped to pieces, eaten or burned, for fuck's sake! And I'm the bad guy? Really?”
There it was - something Dean hadn't ever admitted to himself out loud before. The first thing he'd done, after the whole thing with Sam and Jessica, was to call you. He always called you. To make sure you're safe and the house wasn't going up in flames. While researching, he always checked Sioux Falls’ obituaries.
John knew exactly where to hit him where it hurt. Because they were father and son, after all.
Dean couldn't stop the words that left his lips next. They sprung from somewhere buried deep inside him, six feet under; pushed past his soft heart and sharpened his teeth, aimed to hurt his father, his sun and guiding light. And he knew, he knew the fall was gonna hurt. His whole body braced for the nostalgic taste of blood in his mouth. A sick satisfaction spread through Dean's chest like poison; He deserved the punishment for not heeding his father's warning, but he was a Winchester. They couldn't help but to go down swingin’.
“Maybe what really pisses you off,” Dean rasped, seeing eye to eye with John, who still held him up against the car, “is seeing me care about anything other than what you tell me to.”
He heard his own nose break before the pain shot through his body. John let go of his jacket and his son hit the ground groaning in pain. He kneeled down next to Dean.
“You wanna act like Sam and run away from saving people's lives? Go ahead. You wanna play house? Be my guest. See how far that gets you. But don't you dare spam my phone with voicemails asking me to return your calls, when you got her blood on your hands.”
John fished the car keys from Dean's pocket and stepped over him to round Baby. He got the boys’ duffle bags from the trunk and dumped them next to Dean, who crawled away from the car bit by bit, trying to regain his bearings in the dark.
Sam came barreling through the door, looking for his brother as soon as he heard the Impala's engine running. He called out to Dean and watched John drive off into the night.
***
A thick streak of blood soaked into Dean's shirt, dead center on his chest. His eyes rivaled it in color, full of tears and shame.
While he patched up his brother, Sam heard Bobby say every possible curse, insult and bad word in existence.
“Next time I see’m, I'm gonna shoot the bastard, no questions asked! That son of a-”
He threw shut the freezer door. The sound drowned out the last of his sentence. He wrapped a bag of frozen peas in a dish towel and handed it to Dean.
“Thanks Bobby.” he rasped, his voice nasal and thick with pain.
“What'd he say to you? Did he really care that much about whether you guys are…” Sam felt Bobby's gaze like a hand on his shoulder and respectfully chose to omit details.
“‘Think he's jealous I'm the only one gettin’ some nookie ‘round here.” Dean grinned.
He caught Bobby's glare.
“Sorry, man. Should'a told you sooner.”
He grimaced and handed over Dean's beer.
“Ya think old Bobby didn't realize his own kid suddenly livened up whenever you've snuck into her room the night before?”
Unfortunately, Dean had made the mistake of taking a swig of his beer as Bobby spoke. He groaned in pain in between coughs and a few tears rolled down his cheeks.
“Sorry, son.” There was a comforting familiarity in the sting of Bobby's slaps to Dean's back.
Somehow, it made him feel better that Bobby paid him back with his own version of tough love, because Dean knew deep down that this was as bad as it was gonna get. And he was grateful for that.
“Don't worry about it.” Dean coughed. Then, when he'd caught his breath, he continued, encouraged by the lack of big emotions in Bobby's behavior.
“So you tellin’ me you knew all along that we-?”
“Dean, everyone knows.” Sam interrupted with a playful scoff. His brother's eyes darted between them both.
“You may be great hunters, but you're both shit at actin’, you an’ her.” Bobby added.
Dean let his head hang dramatically and the pain of instant regret zapped through his nose at the sudden movement. He hissed and gritted his teeth.
“Why'd you never say anything?” Dean groaned, blinking away new tears.
The swift, metallic pop of freshly opened beer bottles cut through the tension. Bobby sat back down and took a big sip of his.
“Didn't think I needed to tell you to treat her well. She wouldn't be smilin’ like that whenever you stop by, if you didn't already.”
Dean’s eyes searched Bobby's expression for mockery or sarcasm, but he only found heartfelt reassurance.
“I think dad already gave you enough of a talk.” Sam kicked at Dean's leg lightly.
The older Winchester grinned with anything but humor on his face; blank stare glued to the condensation on the bottle before him. He knocked back half of the beer in one go, to gulp down the memory of John's voice along with it.
To drown out the pounding ache of failure in his head.
***
Soon enough, they'd agreed to go to sleep. John had texted Sam the address and room number of the Motel he stayed at overnight and that he'd leave the Impala there for the boys to pick up the next day.
It was a small relief to Dean. The weight of his father's words made him feel hollow and used up inside. He was angry and conflicted - and he felt even angrier at himself for feeling conflicted to begin with!
He sat on the edge of the guest bed, one door down the hall from you. He couldn't let himself relax, muscles aching, leg bouncing to get some tension out of his body. And he tried with all his might to follow Bobby's order; tried to keep himself from checking on you, but was like he could feel your warmth radiating through the wood, walls thrumming with a pulse of their own, ever reaching for or retracting from him, depending on which of his thoughts bounced off the walls.
Growing up, they'd never stayed in any place long enough for him to make friends, let alone have a chance to explore the possibility of long-term romantic commitment. And even if he had, who could really want him to stick around? Need him, sure. But be chosen as a companion without him serving as a protector, a shield, a buffer? He couldn't even fathom it.
Dean had been told by people, especially women, that he's pretty - sexy, even- as he'd grown into his body and voice. Soon enough he'd figured out how to lean into the gruff-yet-charming part of himself that made ladies’ knees weak; how to dial his ‘Fuck Me’ eyes to the max without being sleazy.
He played the part for one act in their life, before disappearing without a trace. He knew how to scratch their itch; that it would grant him a temporary feeling of having performed well - of being good. The rose-red clawmarks on his back were his trophy following another outstanding delivery and he wore them like a badge of honor around Sam. Showing off that he- Dean, the good son, the great older brother, the greatest fling- was on his A game at all times.
Along their travels, they'd met you whenever they'd stopped by in Sioux Falls or when they ran into you on hunts in the most random places. And not only had you never cared for his playboy act, but you seemed like you genuinely cared about him, Sam and Bobby, too. It confused Dean to no end. He often wondered what you were itching for, if it really wasn't him, and how to give it to you.
Sometimes, you had held Dean's hand while Sam sutured his wounds, gripped his shoulders after a nightmare, when he'd needed an anchor to weather the storm inside his head. And without fail, after each successful hunt spent together, you just left. With nothing else asked of either Sam or him, apart to watch out for one another, so you'd be able to see them again.
Over the years, his lingering gazes had been reciprocated, he felt. But whenever he leaned in close enough for you to bridge the gap with a kiss, you'd just give him another gorgeous smile. One of those that made his chest feel all strange- fuller somehow. Again, never asking anything of him. You just existed together, next to them. Doing research, eating greasy food in run-down diner booths, sleeping in motel beds smelling of mildew and other unmentionables. Sometimes he'd catch you looking at him first, through Baby's rear view mirror, and you held his gaze. Never with lust or need, never with disappointment.
One time, during a hunt in Nevada, you'd gotten shot and Dean had never felt the same kind of pain seething his skin; like he'd been dropped into ice cold water from sixty feet high. Numb and shaking, he'd caught you before your head could split open on the concrete floor.
The brothers had brought you to a hospital, of course, and Dean still remembered how genuinely terrified he'd been. Of you not making it, of calling Bobby and admitting to the most profound failure: not having shielded you, not having taken the hit in your stead.
But Bobby had been anything but angry, which, again, totally confused Dean to this day. In fact, Bobby had been relieved; grateful to him and Sammy for saving you and for bringing you back to him.
You hadn't been angry at him, either. You hadn't screamed at him, hadn't told him what he knew deep in his gut - that he was a fuck-up, a fraud. An unreliable and useless good-for-nothing. On the contrary. You had embraced him, asked if he was hurt, too, or if he'd gotten by with just a scare.
That was the moment, he thought to himself, he knew the bond you shared was something entirely different from anything he'd experienced before.
Something profound.
***
Dean checked his phone. Almost an hour had gone by. Something snapped inside him. Before he knew it, he was back on his feet. Led by the magnetic pull from behind his navel.
The strip of light under your door made Dean wonder whether you'd actually been awake this whole time. Frustrated, he thought about how he might've avoided the whole argument with his father, if only Bobby hadn't kept him from coming to see you earlier.
He knocked on the wood ever so slightly, just in case you were actually sleeping with a light on. You didn't respond, so he pushed down the handle as gently as he could and hoped the old thing wouldn't creak.
Dean's care was rewarded with the sight of you, sleeping soundly, next to a burning candle on your nightstand. Thankfully, it was one of those in a glass cup.
His heart hammered against his sternum. He remembered the first few times he'd snuck into your room, afraid of getting caught by Bobby.
At that, he also remembered his father's words and swallowed the shame burning his insides, forcing himself to leave all memories behind the now closed door. Nothing mattered right now, except for you.
He took his time to take in the room, your room, with all the little knick-knacks and trinkets collected on hunts throughout the years.
It was your first ever home, you'd told him once. Your relatives had done unspeakable things to you, dropped you on the side of the highway out of Sioux Falls and left you to die in the scorching summer sun. That's where Bobby had gathered you, fifteen years ago; nursed you back to health with the gentle hands of a man who'd never had children of his own, but secretly wished he did, Dean suspected.
Your plant collection took up every bit of space on the windowsill. Some of the bigger ones stood in the corner of the room, vibrant and shiny. A cork board hung above your desk, littered in memories. A few years ago, Sam had gifted you a polaroid camera. Dean had supplied the film.
‘Best birthday gift ever! Thanks guys!’ you'd told them through tears of joy. He still remembered the bone crushing hug and your excited hopping in place.
He swallowed his laugh at the memory and took a closer look at the pictures pinned to the board.
One showed a grumpy Bobby, a birthday cake in front of him that had an ungodly amount of candles stuck on top, because you affectionately called him your “old man”. The off-center party hat really sold the sourness in his expression.
Another one caught the most heinous crime you'd ever committed against Dean: Sam had captured you drawing a crooked mustache on him while he was sleeping (and drunk, if he remembered right). Thankfully, with non-permanent ink.
A few pictures showed people Dean hadn't ever met himself and he wondered if they were just other hunters to you. Some showed people's arm around your shoulders, a third party having caught the moment. Other pictures were candid snaps of these people reading, driving and so on.
Multiple street cats stared back at Dean, like they had at you while saving these moments for later.
One of the photos in particular looked like it had seen better days. Almost like you had carried it around in your pocket for some time - it showed him and Sammy sitting next to each other in the booth of some diner. A rather unflattering capture, with Dean's gullet full to the brim with half of the burger he held in his hands and sauce spilling over his lip in one corner of his mouth. And then Sam, mid blink and mid rant about some piece of lore he'd read up on.
Dean's vision blurred. Surprised, he rubbed the emerging tears from his eyes. He truly was exhausted, he figured. Ignoring how much his heart felt like a wild falcon beating its wings, trapped in his ribcage. He tried his best to get a grip on it, but the damn thing always had a mind of its own.
Finally, he couldn't stay away from you any longer and sat down on the floor next to your bed, his hands instinctively reaching to touch you, to make sure you were alive and real and not another memory lost to time.
One of his hands rested on your head, gingerly brushing his thumb over your temple. The other found one of your hands and interlaced your fingers as best he could, while you were still unconscious.
He leaned in real close and placed a gentle kiss on your cheek.
“Hey, pretty girl. ‘M home.” Dean's voice was gentle, barely audible.
You looked so beautiful, even in your sleep. Despite the heaviness of his eyelids, he couldn't get enough of the sight of you sleeping peacefully, painted with the gentle warmth of candlelight.
To his dismay (and absolute delight) you opened your eyes. Your hand twitched in his.
“Didn't mean to wake you, sorry. Don't tell Bobby I did. Our little secret, alright?”
His words were unintelligible to you, still half asleep and disoriented.
“Dean?” Your voice was weak, strained. It made him place another kiss on your cheek.
“Missed me?”
You forced yourself to lean on your elbow, but the sharp pain in your side made you wince.
“Hey, woah woah woah- easy there, Tiger,” a gentle hand on your shoulder pushed you back into the mattress without any effort, “can't let you get outta bed. Doctor's orders.”
“Dean…”
You placed your hand on his cheek and he held your wrist. His thumb brushed over your pulse point and he kissed your palm, before leaning in and closing his eyes. For the first time that day, he was able to take a deep breath. It made his skin tingle all over.
“Can't believe it.” You said.
For a moment, Dean completely lost himself in your expression. Pure adoration gleamed in your eyes. He felt as if he'd ridden into town on his black steed, your knight in shining armor, to rescue you from a dragon. God knew he would, if given the chance.
But he wasn't here to save you, because you weren't a helpless damsel locked away in a tower and your old man wasn't a tyrant, keen on making you bleed if you tried to look at the world beyond his iron grip.
“What was that, sweetheart?” He asked, after a few beats between you were spent lost in thought.
“Prayed before bed,” you spoke up a little louder, “prayed for another dream of you. Can't believe it. Haven't had one in a long time.”
Surprised, he grinned at you. You weren't a devout believer in no Heavenly Father watching over you, he knew. Of course, with the kind of job you guys had, it was hard not to at least believe in the possibility of there being one. But the thought of you not only dreaming of him, but also praying for more made him want to kiss you stupid.
To think you'd spend the time before bed kneeling by it, hands clasped, asking for anyone willing to listen to make sure Dean returned to you, at least in your sleep, if not in real life.
A warmth dripped down his spine like honey. A stark contrast to the bitterness life had raised him on; To the sharp, metallic scent of blood that clung to him no matter how hard he scrubbed his hands.
“So, we're in a dream right now? This feel like a dream to you?” Dean rasped, voice heavy with reverence.
You nodded and smiled. Relishing in the sight of his beautiful face.
“Has to be. You're far away and haven't called in a while.”
“Yeah, well. We took care of a vamp nest. Also, Sammy, …dad and I. We're reelin’ in a big fish right now.”
You hummed, blinked up at him slowly.
“I miss you.” You admitted.
Dean couldn't stop himself from kissing you properly this time. You sighed into his mouth and caressed the back of his neck, like you knew he liked. He gulped down every drop of affection you were willing to offer him, starved for it as he was. Gorging on the noises you made, savoring the taste of comfort still lingering on your tongue.
Before he could lose himself too much in your warmth, though, you pushed him off a bit to catch your breath.
“Missed you too, gorgeous.” He panted, “Wish I'd gotten here earlier. Would’a gone on that hunt with you.”
You smiled up at him, knowingly. “Yeah? You really would have agreed to take me on a hunt?”
He pursed his lips. Thought about it for a second.
“Nah, not a chance. Pretty girl like you shouldn't have to get'er hands dirty.”
Dean loved hearing you laugh. Especially when he was the reason why. It was the only sound he ever wanted to hear again. Unfortunately, it didn't last long, due to the pain that made you wince with regret. He placed a kiss to your temple.
“Wouldn't'a gotten hurt if I'd'a been there.”
“You should see the other guy.”
Something ugly reared its visage inside his chest. He tensed like second nature, ready to cut the head off the snake coiling around his heart.
“What, the other hunter? That incompetent dickhead who didn't watch out for you?”
You slapped his chest, grinning.
“No, silly! I meant the spirit! And we did try to be careful,” There was a soft reassurance in your voice now, “It was just one of those days, you know?”
Dean breathed, forced himself to trust your words. Absentmindedly, he put his palm on your cheek, gently brushing over your brow ridge with his thumb.
“The vamps could throw a mean right hook, too, huh?”
You nodded at his nose, which was very obviously freshly bruised. His jaw tensed. You could see shadows dancing on his cheek.
A rare vulnerability showed in his eyes, just for a second, but he felt you seeing through the disguise he wore like armor. The ever-present weight hanging off his neck, cutting into his shoulders, wearing him down day by day.
“Yeah, well… good ol’ Edward might look like a stringbean on screen but he sure can fight.”
It was moments like these, when you let your gaze roam over his face, studying him, that he felt threadbare and unsure of what his next line should be. And it scared him like no monster could ever hope to achieve.
“Poor baby.” You cooed with a knowing look.
One that said: I know there is something you're not telling me and I will sit with you and hold your hand until you're ready.
And that was more than Dean had ever received in his entire life- the gift of unwavering patience and companionship, despite his cloak and mask.
God, he thought, whatever she sees in me, please let her keep seeing it.
“How long are you gonna sit on the floor, by the way?”
He didn't need to be asked twice. Gingerly, he helped you move over enough for him to lay on the bed with you. The both of you were extra careful not to irritate each other's wounds.
“I hope I never forget this dream. Feels so real.” You whispered and he smiled into the kiss you pressed to his lips.
“Please come back soon. I miss you so much, Dean.”
“Don't worry. We're gonna see each other again sooner than you think, I promise.” His tone matched yours now. Quiet words shared just between you two and whoever might be listening up above.
The two of you lost any sense of time, as you held onto one another. With you, the only heat on his face stemmed from your soft lips pressing kisses to his flushed skin.
Truth be told, when he'd made the comment about ‘being the only one gettin’ some nookie’ earlier, he'd vastly overstated how far the two of you had gotten in your… whatever this was.
Stolen glances and chaste kisses? Yes. Arms around each other like two people shipwrecked, after each nightmare or hunt gone awry? Absolutely. But the idea of sex (one of the few things in life he knew how to excel at) with you made him feel as if he were a blushing virgin again. Untouched and unmarred.
But you never asked for him to take the next step, for him to be your bread and play. Never scratched or scorched his skin, because you were unlike any creature he'd ever dealt with before.
Eventually, Dean opened his eyes and noticed the candle had flickered out. And in the dead of night, you gripped each other tightly, knowing this was something worth holding onto, something worth living for.
He pulled back to place his lips on your temple one more time.
“Sweet dreams, angel.”