β‘βΈβΈ ππ πππ ππ ππππ πππ ππππ π,
summary,, dean is almost exactly like his father. when an argument begins between you both causing you to leave, he regrets what he said. all of it.
wordΒ count,, 1,066
pairing,, dean winchester x sibling!reader (f)
genre,, angst, sadness, dean trying to apologise
@cherryimpiela-67 @s0urw00lf @specialagentmonkey @trumpkinhotboy hope you guys enjoy π
part 1
You stare at your phone longer than you mean to.
Itβs late. Too late to pretend this is casual. Too late to pretend youβre not shaking.
The motel room smells like stale chips and detergent. Your bag is still half-packed, like youβre waiting for permission to exist somewhere. Every sound outside makes your shoulders tense. Every silence feels too loud.
You tell yourself youβre not calling to apologise.
Youβre not calling to go back.
Youβre calling because you need to hear a voice that once meant home, even if it doesnβt anymore.
Deanβs name sits there on your screen.
You hit call before you can talk yourself out of it.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Your breath catches harder with every second.
You picture him answeringβgruff and guarded, maybe surprised. You picture saying something dumb. Something honest. Something like 'I didnβt want it to end like that.'
The call goes to voicemail.
Deanβs voice greets you, familiar and cruel in the gentlest way.
Your chest aches with regret so sharp it feels physical. Not because he didnβt answer, but because a part of you is relieved he didnβt.
You set the phone face-down on the bed like it canβt hurt you if you donβt look at it.
You donβt cry.
You just lie there, staring at the ceiling, wondering if this is what freedom is supposed to feel like.
Dean notices the missed call an hour later.
Heβs sitting on the edge of a motel bed, boots still on, beer sweating warm in his hand. Samβs in the bathroom, the shower running. The room feels wrong without youβtoo quiet and empty.
Thatβs it. No voicemail. No follow-up.
Deanβs thumb hovers over the screen.
His heart kicks painfully against his ribs.
For a split second, he considers calling back. Just pressing the button. Just hearing your voice and pretending he didnβt say what he said.
But the echo of his own words rises up instead.
Donβt expect to come back.
Dean locks the phone and tosses it onto the bed like it burned him.
Sam comes out of the bathroom and sees it instantly: the tension, the tight jaw, the way Dean wonβt meet his eyes.
βWho was it?β Sam asks.
Sam doesnβt argue. He just watches Dean unravel quietly for a moment before speaking again.
βShe called, didnβt she?β
Dean exhales sharply. βYeah.β
βYou didnβt answer.β
Sam steps closer, voice low. βWhy?β
Dean laughs without humor. βWhat was I supposed to say? βHey, sorry I kicked you out of the familyβ? βSorry I sounded exactly like Dadβ?β
Sam winces. Dean stares at the floor. βI meant what I said.β
Samβs voice softens, but thereβs steel underneath it. βDid you?β
Silence stretches between them, thick and heavy and full of everything youβre not there to say. Then Sam speaks again. He's quietly devastating.
βIf Dad had said that to you,β he asks gently, βwould you have stayed too?β
The question hits harder than any punch ever has.
Images flashβyounger, scared, desperate for approval. Staying when it hurt. Staying when it broke him. Staying because leaving felt worse.
Deanβs throat tightens.
βNo,β he says hoarsely.
Sam nods once. βThen why did you expect her to?β
The missed call sits there between them, silent and final.
And for the first time since you walked out that door, Dean doesnβt look angry... he looks ashamed.
Dean stares at his phone for a long time, thumb hovering like the button might bite him if he presses it. Samβs question still rings in his ears, loud enough to drown out the motel TV.
If Dad had said that to you, would you have stayed too?
He waits until Samβs asleep. Until the room is dark and quiet and thereβs no one left to see his hands shake.
Goes straight to voicemail.
Your voice doesnβt answer, just the automated tone. Somehow, that hurts worse.
βHeyβ¦ uh.β He clears his throat, already hating how this sounds. βItβs me.β
Silence stretches. He almost hangs up. Almost.
βI saw you called earlier.β A beat. βI didnβt answer. IβI shouldβve. Thatβs on me.β
He exhales, long and shaky.
βI keep tellinβ myself I was just doinβ what had to be done. That I was keepinβ the family together. That someone had to be the bad guy.β
His voice cracks on the last word. He presses his lips together, like he can physically stop it from happening.
βFunny thing isβ¦ Dad used to say that exact same crap.β
Another pause. Longer this time.
βI told you not to come back.β His voice drops. βI donβt think I meant it. I think I just didnβt know how to take it back once it was out there.β
The motel ice machine hums in the background. Somewhere far away, a car passes.
βI donβt know how to say sorry without soundinβ like Iβm askinβ you to fix it for me,β Dean admits quietly. βAnd that ainβt fair. None of this is.β
He drags a hand over his face.
βYou were right. About wantinβ more. About not wantinβ to die for somethinβ you didnβt choose.β A bitter laugh. βHell, Iβve been mad at you for havinβ the guts to say it out loud.β
His voice softens, almost breaks.
βI miss you. The room feels wrong without you in it. Sam wonβt say it, but I know he does too.β
βI donβt know if callinβ you back means askinβ you to come home. And I donβt wanna be that guy again. I donβt wanna sound like him.β
The words come quieter now, stripped bare.
βSoβ¦ if you donβt call me back, I get it. If you doββ His voice falters. βIβll answer. I swear.β
βHappy New Year,β he adds suddenly, awkward and painfully sincere, like the thought snuck up on him. βOrβ¦ happy... Tuesday. Whatever day it is. I donβt know. Iβm bad at this.β
A huff of breath. Almost a laugh. Almost a sob.
βTake care of yourself, okay?β he murmurs. βYou always deserved that.β
Dean stares at his phone like it might ring immediately.
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