─── ♡ dean winchester x f!reader | he’s got hands that make hell seem cold
You could write a whole essay on Dean’s hands. You have never been to college, but you would definitely need more than 1,000 words or whatever the word limit was because you’d fill it up in a heartbeat.
Dean’s hands were your favorite part of him, and that was saying a lot, because you liked Dean a lot. All of him.
He talked a lot with his hands, but not just gesturing, he always found a way of expressing everything he couldn’t say with his mouth through his hands. And you’ve learned to read that like any other language – a secret language just for you to know.
The way he would tap his fingers against his thigh whenever he was seated meant he was nervous or impatient.
The way he’d grip the steering wheel of the Impala too hard told you he was angry.
The way he would brush his fingers around the edge of his coffee cup several times revealed he was overthinking.
The way he’d curl his fingers into a tight fist when someone dared to touch a hair on your head, or even just looked at you the wrong way.
The way he’d clean his guns with quiet precision, his own ritual to prepare, almost meditation-like, before a hunt.
And there were also secret messages in the way he touched you.
He’d casually press his palm against your lower back or brush his fingers against yours just to double check you were there, that you were real – especially after he’d been to Hell and back, literally.
The way he would cup your face between his hands after a fight just to ensure there weren’t any injuries.
Whenever it was just the two of you riding Baby, or sometimes with Sam on the backseat, Dean would reach for your knee or thigh on your side of the car and keep his right hand there. Not in a possessive way, just grounding – his way of making sure you stayed right at his side.
When you shared a bed on whatever crappy motel you were staying at during a hunt, and you were feeling a bit overwhelmed thanks to the day’s horrors, he’d wrap you in his arms and his hands would absentmindedly play with your hair or draw circles on your shoulder – his silent way of soothing you, of telling you 'I've got you, baby. Everything will be all right'.
Sometimes, while you two slept, his hands would travel to your stomach and pull you in, keeping you as close as possible to his own frame.
Other times, when he was on top of you, kissing you stupid, his hands would roam throughout your whole body, as if he was trying to memorize every curve, every indentation, every freckle, every scar.
And he had succeeded, he knew your body like second nature, as if he had been made for it, to touch it, to worship it.
He would brush his thumb against your lower lip, while locking his pretty, piercing green eyes with yours, asking for permission – as if you could ever say no to him.
He’d trail the path from your neck to your core painfully slowly because Dean never rushed. He took his sweet time to work on your body as if every touch might be the last, and he wanted to embed every reaction or sound he pulled out from you in his brain, forever.
Needless to say, his fingers always made you see stars. Whether from rubbing circles on your clit or sliding in and out of you, in those moments, you thought you were as close to Heaven as you’ll ever be.
And Dean’s hands were always warm. You didn’t know how even in winter, after hours of driving through snow-covered backroads with Baby’s heater barely working, his hands still managed to stay warm, alive. You had teased him about it and he’d replied ‘Guess I’m just hot-blooded, sweetheart. Comes with being this damn irresistible.’, accompanying it with his classic flirtatious grin.
And you actually couldn’t see any flaws in his logic. His warmth was able to ignite a fire inside of you that made Hell seem like the Antarctic.
Dean’s touch wasn’t just affection, it brought comfort. His hands anchored you; they scorched away every fear, every nightmare, every monster.
You loved the way his calloused hands not only held yours, but also stories, memories, promises, love.
And even if the world ended, and the monsters you've fought tooth and nail against finally won, you know you’d still find his hands in the afterlife—still warm, still reaching for you.
germansingergirl
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