⌖They all wanna take her out⌖
⌖ (but no one ever wants to take her home)⌖
SUMMARY: Dean has always been just along for the ride. Getting around town, flashing his fuck me eyes and feeling good for a night. When he's suddenly confronted with something real, he doesn't know how to act. 3.8k
WARNINGS: angst. john winchester's A+ parenting. mentions of parental abuse. dean's unhealthy coping mechanisms. hurt/comfort. using sex to replace intimacy. dean winchester is bad at feelings and incredibly traumatized. angst with happy ending.
now playing: fuck me eyes by ethel cain.
Dean Winchester learned from a very young age that love is conditional.
He would only ever be loved for what he could give, for what he might provide. If he ever was loved at all, that is.
Because, yes, Sammy loves him. But that’s because Dean made him dinner every night, kept him safe during cases, and read him bedtime stories. Dean would let him have the last bit of store-bought pie, and Sam would look at him with those shiny puppy eyes. He would calm him down after a nightmare and get him to fall back asleep, and Sam would smile at him a little more gently the next morning. Dean would save his life during a hunt while their father was busy chasing the monster, and Sam would press himself to his side during the ride to the motel.
Sam loves him because Dean provides for him, the way a son is conditioned to love a parent.
His father… he prefers not to think about that one too much. John loved him—Dean knows he did—in his own way.
And maybe his father only ever looked at him with anything akin to affection when Dean ganked a creature in record time. Maybe he only ever acknowledged him to order him around, to scold him, or to demand he take care of Sammy.
Maybe his father would come back to the motel rooms angry, his hand always fisted around a gun or a bottle. And Dean had learned quickly that his rage would soon be redirected toward him if he didn’t act fast. If he didn’t perform.
So he’d abandon his comic books, his cartoons and carton of chocolate milk, and he’d approach his father with careful steps—the way a dog approaches the hand that hits him. Dean would speak in a low voice, just a few sentences at first, testing the waters. If his father spat a “go to bed” at him or if his fist clenched, Dean would get up from the couch and go lay down on the stiff motel mattress.
If John closed his eyes or rubbed a hand over his mouth, Dean continued. He would reassure his father, try to comfort him. He had figured out exactly what to say to make him put the bottle down just halfway through it. He knew what not to say unless he wanted to get yelled at and find his father gone the next morning.
When he excelled at hunting, when he followed orders without questioning, when Sam was safe—that was the closest he ever felt to being loved by John.
Any mistake, any selfish request, any bit of his true self that slipped through his mask would make any warmth evaporate, and he’d be left frozen—sometimes with a bruise—and wondering why. What did he do this time?
So, yeah. Dean knows that love is conditional.
That’s why, when you came into his life, he didn’t know how to handle you.
There’s a lot of things Dean struggles with, but women have never been one of them.
He knows what they want, and how to give it to them.
From a very young age, women of all ages have looked at him a certain way. He quickly realized that he was attractive. Hot, even. Sexy. Women would approach him—his classmates in school, ladies at the bar his dad brought him to long before he was old enough to enter, witnesses during cases—and they all batted their pretty eyes at him, spoke to him in soft voices, and touched him with gentle hands.
At first, he would get attached. There was something in his chest, something snarling and salivating, that went crazy at their attention. At their affection. Some girl would run a hand through his hair, and Dean would already be wondering what their kids would look like.
Then he got old enough, and the touches became a little more lingering. Women would slide their hands up his arm, wink at him after pouring his whiskey, lean down until all he could see was their cleavage. They kept the soft voices, but now there was an undertone to it. Something sticky, sweet, and velvety. It would wrap around his brain and make him fuzzy.
The first night Dean woke up alone in a messy motel bed, he understood.
He would only be wanted for what he could provide. Girls would look at him with caring eyes as long as he made them moan and squirm in the sheets. They would caress his face and hold him close as long as their legs ended up shaking and their pupils blown out. They would offer him nice words, comforting him and complimenting him, as long as he could offer them a good hookup.
They wanted him—as long as he was gone by morning.
So when he met you, he knew exactly what to do.
Sam and Dean had already crossed paths with you in previous hunts. After the first time you almost stabbed him during a poltergeist case, the brothers called Bobby and asked if he knew anyone with your name.
Bobby’s voice had turned the most affectionate they had ever heard it as he told them about the time you came to him for help with a spell. He went on a little rant about you staying in his house after you got hurt and how he woke up to breakfast waiting for him on the dinner table and his fridge full of beer and fresh produce, before he realized he sounded way too fond of you and grumbled something about you being a good kid and to keep you safe if they ever crossed paths with you again.
And they did—over and over again. Sam bumped into you at a library in Nevada, and you joined them in a vampire hunt once in Massachusetts. Dean bought you a drink in upstate New York about three months after your first meeting, and he could never have guessed how it’d go.
“Here you go, sweetheart,” he grinned at you with his signature confident smile. You murmured a thank you and grabbed the margarita from his hand, your fingers brushing.
But the smile you gave him was a little too neutral, too actually grateful. You didn’t shudder at the touch of your fingers, and your gaze quickly returned to your phone afterward. Your words weren’t flustered or alluring—just normal.
Still, he didn’t give up. He slid onto the stool next to you, and the moment you turned to face him, he tilted his head and looked down at you in that way he knew would make his lashes look longer and his green eyes shinier. He added just the tiniest bit more arrogance to his lopsided smirk, and he even went as far as to wink at you.
But then you laughed—not flirty, not mean, just amused—and sipped your margarita as you turned around and shared some small talk with the bartender.
So you weren’t interested, then.
That was okay. Dean knew how to handle rejection.
But then you found Sam and Dean again later that night.
The bartender had ended up pulling some tarot cards from behind the counter, and you offered to give her a reading in exchange for a free drink. Dean had never seen anyone handle psychic bullshit the way you did—so effortless, so sharp. You joked your way through it, laughing as you laid the cards down, but your words still carried weight. Each sentence landed with the kind of quiet gravity that made people go still.
You told fortunes like you were spinning stories, your voice lilting between casual and cryptic. You winked at the girl behind the counter, did little sleight-of-hand tricks with the deck, and flipped each card like it had something sacred to say.
Halfway through it, five people were already lining up behind you, drawn in like moths to a flame.
You drifted through the bar like smoke the rest of the night—laughing, glowing, throwing back drink after drink without ever seeming sloppy. You didn’t take a dollar for your readings and kept reminding people not to take you too seriously, but it was impossible not to. Dean couldn’t stop watching you.
And then, you’d found your way back to the brothers, your cheeks flushed with tequila and your eyelids a little heavy. “I think I’ll call it a night, guys.”
“Let me drive you back to your motel.” Sam threw Dean a weirded-out look, and he could hear his little brother’s question in his head.
You’re leaving a bar, alone, before two?
Dean didn’t turn to face him, scared his real self would slip through his mask. Instead, he led you out of the bar and into the passenger seat of Baby, thanking the God he didn’t know if he believed in that he decided to stop after his first beer.
He didn’t let himself wonder why he stopped. Why the sight of you dancing around the bar, beaming at every client and being admired by everyone had suddenly killed his hankering for the one thing that had always been good to him in his life—even when it burned washing down his throat.
Dean was ready to drive you to your motel in silence, make sure you got in safe, and head back to the bar to get hammered. He wouldn’t try anything again, because he knew better than to push after being rejected.
“You know, you really saved my ass back there,” you murmured when Dean stopped the Impala in front of your room, turning to stare at him under the dim streetlights.
When Dean met your eyes, they were kind in a way he had never been on the other end of.
“Don’t mention it,” Dean said with what was meant to be a bashful smile, but he couldn’t help the way his chest puffed out. He was of service. He did something good. “It’s what we do—we have each other’s backs.”
You seemed to study him for a second, your eyes scanning every inch of his face. Dean squirmed in his seat, not loving the way he could almost feel you sinking in, making your way through his walls, analyzing him on an almost psychic level. Maybe you actually did know what you were talking about.
This was the moment. It was dark, late at night, and the two of you were alone in Baby in some desolate parking lot. You were slightly buzzed, and he had just given you something. Had just performed.
Your eyes were still on his, and this was when you’d lean in and kiss him, or invite him into your room. He got ready for it, almost desperate for the gratification it would bring—for those few minutes he would finally feel fulfilled. Feel loved.
But then you chuckled, shaking your head slightly before opening the car door.
“Stay safe, Dean,” you whispered into the night, right before getting out of the car and walking into your motel room.
To this day, Dean doesn’t get it.
He saw you more often after that. Something happened to you—something ugly and tragic—that you wouldn’t talk about with anyone but Bobby. It left you morose, a little broken, and with a whole new set of scars.
Bobby called Sam and Dean the day you tried to put scopolamine in his beer so you could go on a hunt.
“She’s goin’ stir-crazy, but I’ll be damned if I let that girl go on a hunt alone after—that.”
So a deal was made. You could work on cases, but you had to go along with Sam and Dean. You seemed to actually like the brothers, because you only rolled your eyes once before accepting.
That was the moment everything went downhill.
Because suddenly, he was trapped with you at every waking moment—during long drives in Baby, in every moldy motel room, in every library and morgue and graveyard. You became a constant in his life, in the way only his brother, his car, and his whiskey had ever been.
And Dean could’ve dealt with it, if you weren’t so goddamned confusing.
Because you patch him up sometimes, and your hands on his skin are delicate and soothing. You murmur reassuring words in the dark of night, brush his damp hair off his forehead, and ask him if he’s okay—and Dean actually believes that you care about the answer.
But you still don’t want him.
You stare at him with shiny eyes—wide and compassionate and beautiful—but you still take a step back if he tries to slide closer. You run toward him and cradle his face in your hands when he gets stabbed by a wraith, you keep his head on your lap the whole ride back to the motel, and you insist on holding his hand as Sam sutures the wound. Still, the moment he makes a suggestive joke, you roll your eyes and hand him another shot of whiskey to shut him up. You stay by his side that whole night—but you won’t let him touch you.
Dean doesn’t get it. He keeps waiting for you to leave one day—to get tired of this. Of him.
But you don’t. You keep complimenting him—and not just his looks. Maybe you sneak in one or two comments about his eyes, but you praise him. The real him. Not Sam’s parental figure. Not his dad’s perfect soldier. Not the playboy. Somehow, you glimpse beneath the mask.
“You care, Dean. Not a lot of people do. They pretend they do, they offer empty condolences and claim to have tried their best. You—you feel it, deep in your bones. I love that about you.”
“The way you talk to kids—you’re so gentle, Dean. You make them feel safe. You make your way into their hearts in a very special way. The way sunlight filters through the rocks of a cave. The way flowers bloom between cracks in the pavement. You have that effect on people. I love that about you.”
“You always put people before you, Dean. You’re so quick to jump into danger, to use yourself as a shield. You have such a big heart, no matter how much you try to hide it. You’re one selfless motherfucker, and it’s fucking annoying. I love that about you—but it’ll get you killed one day. Again.”
Caring. Gentle. Selfless.
Dean doesn’t fucking get it.
Because you’ve got his back during hunts, and you always find your way to the foot of his bed after a really bad nightmare, and you never get mad when he makes a mistake. You can see all the darkest parts of him—the ugly, scarred, putrid parts—and you look at him with so much… affection.
But you don’t fucking let him give back.
Dean doesn’t understand why. What did he do to deserve this? Why have you decided to give and give and give and take nothing? Why do you keep him around? Why won’t you just let him be of service?
He needs to offer something. Be of use somehow. Before he loses this. Before he loses you. Before you realize he’s no good when he’s not performing—and you leave.
But you’re so fucking impossible.
“I just don’t fucking understand why you won’t let me do it!” Dean yells, slamming Baby’s door shut.
“Because it’s not fucking worth it, Dean!” you cut Sam off, getting out of the backseat and storming around the Impala to stop right in front of Dean. “The motherfucker is dangerous, okay? You can’t keep throwing yourself in the line of fire like that!”
“He hurt you,” Dean spits your name, eyes frantic and his grip on the revolver desperate.
Turns out, the demon they’d been hunting in this town happened to be the same one you encountered months ago—the one that left you cracked and weak.
Dean had lost it when he found out.
But the son of a bitch had formed a cult. At least a hundred demons, all following him around like starving dogs and hanging onto his every word like he was God—or Lucifer, Dean figured.
You three had barely made it out of that destroyed liquor store alive. The demons had cornered you, muttering something about sacrifices and “he’ll love some hunter blood, it’s his favorite.”
Then he appeared. Some long-haired guy with circular dark glasses and bell-bottom pants. Dean had wanted to snort, a snarky one-liner burning at the tip of his tongue—until he felt you.
At the sight of the John Lennon wannabe, your breath caught in your throat and your hand clamped around Dean’s arm tightly, nails digging into his skin like you were gripping a rope that was the only thing keeping you from falling into the abyss.
Dean had never seen you that scared—face pale, lips trembling. He didn’t need to ask. He knew. That was the bastard responsible for the scar down your spine you still tried to hide. For the nightmares that left you gasping in the backseat of Baby.
Dean was going to make him bleed.
If only the bastard hadn’t disappeared. He saw you, said something about still remembering the taste of your blood and how, “You’re still my favorite. A feisty one, huh? So let me do something for you. For old time’s sake.”
And just like that, every demon started vanishing. One by one, they melted into shadow. The demonic lost Beatle was last, still grinning at you in a way that made Dean’s skin crawl and blood burn.
Dean had grabbed the first blade he could find—a simple silver one, since Sam had the demon knife. It wouldn’t do shit. Would barely leave a scratch. But Dean had to do something. Anything.
So he charged, blinded by the pure-white rage pounding in his chest. He was close—just a few more steps—when you stopped him. You wrapped your arms around his middle and yanked him back.
The demon’s laughter still rings in his ears. And when Dean looked up again—he was gone.
Just the three of you. In a shattered liquor store. And once again, Dean had failed you.
“I know he fucking hurt me!” you say through clenched teeth, hands still shaking. They haven’t stopped since the encounter. Dean needs to do something. He needs to kill. He needs to perform.
“But he would’ve fucking incinerated you the moment you got too close!”
Your voice shakes. Dean tells himself it’s just from the memories. Just that.
Dean scoffs, shaking his head. “I know you still have nightmares about what he did! You need—I could’ve gotten rid of him for you. I could’ve made him pay!”
He’s yelling now. He doesn’t want to. He’s terrified he’ll scare you. If you ever flinch at him, he thinks he’ll lose what’s left of his mind. But he’s burning. Itching. Dying to earn it. To earn you.
“That’s not what I need, Dean!” your voice echoes through the parking lot. Somewhere behind you, Sam slips into the motel room.
He’ll find out how this ended in the morning.
Dean snaps. He slams his palm against the hood of Baby—because violence has always felt more comfortable than whatever the hell else is simmering in his chest.
Still, you don’t flinch. That makes it worse.
“Then what?” he screams, stepping closer. “Tell me—what the hell do you need from me?”
You break too. Arms flailing. Voice raw—raw in a way Dean’s never heard before. And just like that—he freezes. “I don’t fucking need anything from you, because my love for you isn’t transactional!”
You both stand there in the dark, your breathing ragged from the outburst. He’s staring at you, blank and wide-eyed, frozen in place. He can’t speak. He can’t breathe. He can’t perform.
He’s waiting—for you to yell again. Or hit him. Or turn around and leave.
But instead, you sigh. Drop your head. Take a deep breath. Then step forward and cup his face with tender hands—and Dean shatters.
Something inside of him breaks. Suddenly. Gruesomely.
“I love you, Dean Winchester,” you say again, voice soft and balmy, coating every single one of his scars and soothing him. It hurts. It hurts so fucking good.
“And it isn’t something you have to earn. Or something you’ll lose. You don’t have to fight for it. And you sure as hell don’t have to kill for it.”
Dean doesn’t understand. His throat locks up. A pain unlike anything—not even Hell—explodes in his chest. His breath stutters. His mouth opens and closes, again and again. All his wit, his charm, his clever little lines—gone.
There’s a loud clatter, and when Dean looks down, he sees that he’s let go of the revolver.
It lays there on the asphalt, lonely and shiny. Violence, pain, struggle.
You guide his face back up, cold fingers drumming on his cheekbones, and he meets your eyes. Compassion, softness, love.
His eyes sting, and a lonely tear slides down his cheek. He fights the urge to wipe it away, to pull back and hide his face, to break something. His father’s face flashes before his eyes—his anger at any sign of weakness, his usual “Pull yourself together, boy.”
But maybe love doesn’t have to be tough.
Because there’s nothing tough about the way you’re holding him. There’s not an ounce of harshness in your eyes. No disappointment in the way you wipe away the tear. No disdain when you kiss the wet stain on his cheek.
He leaves the revolver on the ground, pressing his forehead to yours instead.
“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers into the night, his eyes holding yours like they’re the only thing keeping him afloat.
And it’s as simple as that. It could be as simple as that—if Dean lets it.
And when you finally lean forward and your lips meet, it’s not lustful. It’s like two galaxies collapsing, two parallel universes crossing paths. Mystical, celestial—something Dean thought impossible.
There’s definitely something psychic about you, because you’re otherworldly.
Dean has met angels, demons, dragons. He’s met gods and the devil. He’s been to Heaven and Hell. But still, the most unfathomable creature he’s ever seen is this girl who sees right through him—who he would never be worthy of, but who still loves him.
“Come on, darling,” you pull him forward, away from his father’s car, and his guns, and his ever-haunting ghost.
That night, you two don’t have sex. You let Dean hold you through the night. You run your fingers through his hair, play with his hand, and pepper soft kisses all over his face. You don’t expect anything from him. It doesn’t matter that he lays there and lets you take care of him—lets you love him.
Because the next morning, you’re still there. Because the next morning, you still want him.
And he doesn’t have to perform anymore.
NOTES: can you tell that i love character studies? this is my favorite kind of thing to write. Ethel released fuck me eyes and y'all expected me not to write about dean??? anyway, I know i've been a bit MIA but I'm trying to find motivation to finish my WIPs.
I love you all! hope you liked it<333
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