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ᡕᠵデᡁ᠊╾━ kiss your knuckles before you punch me in the face

SUMMARY: Dean Winchester has been saved, but he's not convinced he's actually alive—or that he wants to be. you change his mind. 4.6k

WARNINGS: holy shit here we go. angst. self-harm (kinda). unhealthy coping mechanisms. canon-typical violence. hints to alcoholism. traumatized dean. ptsd. post-hell trauma. more angst. comfort. happy ending. it's all john winchester's fault. fuck that guy.

Dean isn’t good at many things, but he’s good at fighting.

It’s all he’s ever done, all he’s built for. His skin is tough, and he might’ve been born with his hands fisted. He’s lost count of how many times his nose has broken, how many shoulders he’s dislocated, and how many bullets he’s taken.

Dean hasn't really lost a fight since he was thirteen, when his dad watched him get beat up by some ghoul for at least fifteen minutes before shooting it and snarling as he struggled to his feet.

“You need to do better, Dean. If you’re gonna keep being a liability, I’ll have to stop bringing you along.”

And then John had gotten a call from someone—someone he spoke to with a soft voice Dean hadn’t heard since he was four—before he slid into Baby and drove off.

Dean had been left bleeding on the side of the road, with nothing but a pistol and the order to “find a way back to Sammy and wait there until I get back.”

He’d hitchhiked his way back to Pennsylvania, and he’d stayed with Sam for the whole two weeks it took his dad to show up. They’d survived off of Sam’s half-empty bag of cheesepuffs and the five packs of jerky Dean had managed to buy with the bucks he won on a poker game when his dad brought him to a bar for the first time a few weeks before, and Dean made the promise to never be a liability again.

But now he’s here, getting his face bashed in by some demon.

“Dean!” He hears you yell from across the football field, but the hell-bitch is climbing on top of him, his red eyes glinting as he grins down at Dean. He doesn’t even attempt to fight back.

It’s a low-level one, too. Just some crossroads demon trying to trick high schoolers into selling their souls, nothing compared to the kind he’s had to face lately. Dean should’ve killed him long ago, but he can’t bring himself to push the thing away, not even when he knows you and Sammy are watching—just like his dad was that day.

Because the demon had kicked his ribs, clawed a long gash down his torso, and now his fists are coming down onto Dean’s face—and it feels good.

The ache rumbles through his body, sends pangs through his core and down his spine, it makes his mouth taste like metal and the world spin. And Dean deserves this. He deserves the sting of the cut, and the throb of his chest, and the groan that escapes his lips when he receives what will surely become a black eye.

Because Dean tortured people, so many fucking people. It doesn’t matter that Alastair had tortured him first, nothing could ever justify what he did. The monster he had become. The beast that had relished in the screams echoing off the walls and the blood pooling on the floor.

The man that didn’t deserve to be saved, but that’s been brought back to life anyway.

Dean deserves this, and so much worse.

So he’s been letting monsters get a couple shots in before killing them. Their clawed, cold hands feel like acid on his body. Their disgusting skin—furry or slimy or scaled—press down on him, bruise him, and he feels bile rise up his throat. They seem to hate him almost as much as he hates himself, and they always make sure to make it hurt.

Dean hates it, but he needs it. He needs the pain, the reminder. That he’s the real monster, that he doesn’t deserve better, and he’ll never be better. That for the rest of his life, all he’ll do is bleed.

The demon’s hand is swinging down toward his face for the third time, and he’s a strong son of a bitch. Maybe this one will knock him out, and he will finally get some nightmareless rest.

He’s not that lucky.

The next time he blinks up—with just one eye, because the other one has started swelling—it’s you who’s on top of him.

You’re saying something, but there’s only static on his ears. You look worried, lips twisted and eyes ashy. Everything Dean touches always seems to turn into ashes.

“What the fuck was that?” Dean hears Sam’s breathless voice somewhere in the background, and he’s also worried. But his worry comes out in rough words and a clenched jaw—the way dad taught them.

Your worry is softer. Your worry comes in knowing silences and sad looks. It comes in whispered words and gentle hands that are moving closer. Unstained, caring hands that are about to cup his face and—

“It was fucking nothing,” Dean grunts, swiftly getting up from the synthetic grass. He’s careful to push you away with enough force for you to not approach him again, but not enough to hurt you.

Dean could never hurt you, at least not physically. He’d never come back from that.

But he knows he’s wounded you, in other ways. Because he’s being an asshole, and he’s been an asshole ever since he came back. He knows it because of Sam’s flared nostrils and his attempts at talking about it. And he knows because your head drops, and your shoulders hunch, and Dean wishes he could claw his own guts out.

But you never lash out. You need to lash out.

“Dean,” Sam tries again, sending you a careful look. “The thing was beating the living daylights out of you—”

“Yeah, Sam. Maybe if you’d done your fucking job instead of flirting with Ruby on the phone, we would’ve killed him hours ago,” he snaps, and Sam’s jaw ticks. There it is.

“Whatever, man,” Sam sighs defeatedly, and once again Dean mourns the fact that Sammy is nothing like dad. He doesn’t even look angry. “You broke anything?”

Dean scowls, and his ribs are throbbing a little harder than usual, and his mouth still tastes like blood, but he’s fine.

“I can handle myself, Sammy. You don’t have to baby me.”

“Let’s just go back to the motel,” you murmur, your voice low and tired. “We all need a shower and some sleep.”

Dean turns around, already walking toward Baby and trying not to show how the cut on his middle stings with every step. Good.

“What I need is a fucking drink,” he grumbles, but it’s not half as heated.

The ride to the motel is quiet, and so is his shower. The hot water washes down his body and makes everything hurt even more. Every time he even thinks about pulling away from the burning, he remembers a soul’s beg for mercy, or Alistair’s smirk, or his own laughter as guts splashed on his face.

As he walks out of the bathroom—the swelling on his eye already fading, leaving only a dark bruise behind—he sees you sitting on the couch, hair fluffy from drying and your pretty face scrunched into thought. There’s bags under your eyes and your lips are red from biting, and Dean has never seen someone more beautiful than you.

He doesn’t deserve beautiful, either.

Sam is not in the room, probably out getting dinner or more beer. They ran out last night, after Dean had gotten back from the bar and drank them all. So he walks toward his bag silently, pulling out his whiskey and taking a long swig directly from the bottle. The liquid burns down his throat, and it’s another punishment. Another reminder.

You were born in pain, you’ll live in pain, you’ll die in pain.

“That’s like your third bottle this week.”

Your words barely reach him from how softly they’re spoken, and Dean grip on the glass tightens until it almost cracks.

“I know.” His voice is strained, cutting, raspy with the shreds of thirty years of screaming.

“You shouldn’t drink so much, Dean.”

“And you should mind your own fucking business.”

You’re silent for a few more seconds before he hears the shuffle of you getting up. His heart is howling at him to apologize, but Dean quiets it down with another gulp of whiskey.

“You don’t have to act like that, you know?”

That makes his breath catch, because it’s the first time you acknowledge his attitude. You’ve been quiet all of this time, taking Dean’s sharp words like he takes bullets. You’ve tried to touch him as well, a few times. Your fingers brushing the back of his hand, your hand trying to land on his shoulder, your arms trying to wrap around him when he stumbles from how drunk he is.

But Dean pulls away every time, because he can’t accept soft touches. Touches that are meant to soothe, to comfort, to feel good. He won’t even let the girls at bars pull him into bed anymore, because even empty words of affection feel like too much for him.

Like roses way too delicate for his torn body. Like cheap carnations that will never amount to the real thing, because they’re not you.

He’s a dog they’ve yet to put down—limping and foaming at the mouth, but still somehow useful enough to keep alive. He was born caked with blood and mud, and he belongs in the mud, where everything is cold and heavy.

And he’d been okay with pretending he wasn’t, before. He’d scrub himself clean and make others believe he was worthy of being touched. There’s people he could never fool—like dad, who always knew the dirty blade he’s always been, and Sam, who’s seen every bit of his tattered soul and can’t pretend to admire him like he did back when he was a baby.

But he’d fooled the girls in his bed, and he’d fooled every hunter and local he’s ever shared a drink with, and he’d fooled you. At least he thinks he did, because you look at him with such light, with a tenderness that you wouldn’t hold for him if you could see who he really is.

Because sometimes it feels like you can see that he’s just a starving dog waiting out in the rain for anyone to throw him some scraps. Like you know he’s worthless as anything but a gun. Like you know that he’s just a shadow that follows you around, and a weapon that protects you from every evil motherfucker out there, and a pitiful beast that grins at you in hopes of getting at least a pat on the head.

But after hell, there’s no way of pretending. He’d drowned in the mud, he’d become the mud, and now there’s not enough scrubbing that will ever make him clean.

“I’m not acting like anything, sweetheart. Go to sleep.”

And he must have really fooled you before, because if you knew, your eyebrows wouldn’t pinch in concern and you wouldn’t walk closer to him, and your hand wouldn’t reach for the whiskey.

Dean pulls the bottle away from your grasp, scowling down at you. He’s been scowling a lot.

“I’m not going to sleep, Dean.” You cross your arms, and your lips pout, and Dean could build a shrine on your name if only he was pure enough to worship you. “Something is clearly bothering you, and you shouldn’t be drinking so much.”

He manages to roll his eyes, his breath heavy on his lungs. He tries to remember the pain of the demon’s foot in his gut when your face drops a little at the action. But you can’t care about him, he doesn’t get to burden someone like you. Someone perfect and beautiful and shiny. Someone who wasn’t made to bleed out in the dirt.

“Nothing’s bothering me,” he drawls out your name.

You hold his gaze, glaring at him through your eyelashes, and there’s a fire in them. Dean needs to feed it.

“You can’t lie to me, Winchester.” Dean snorts, and it sounds harsh even to his ears.

“Really? You think you know me so well?” He takes a step closer to you, and your shoulders tense. Still, you don’t move back, you don’t flinch. You never flinch with Dean. “You don’t know anything, sweetheart. You have no idea—”

“No,” you whisper, looking up at him with soft eyes. Why are you so soft with him? “I don’t. I can’t even imagine what you’re going through, Dean. But I do know this isn’t healthy.”

Dean runs a hand through his hair, and something in his chest is getting tighter and tighter, like a bomb waiting to explode.

“Why do you care, anyway?” he spits, and more whiskey washes down his throat. “You can just leave, you know? No one’s forcing you to be here if it’s such a hardship for you.”

Something dark flashes on your face, and Dean’s breath heaves.

“It’s not that—”

“No? Then what is it,” your name slides out of his lips with more venom than it has ever done. He usually says it slowly, like a prayer, like a secret he’s lucky enough to hold. But Dean can feel the hellfire still burning the back of his neck, and his skin crawls with the need for something.

“You’re being a dick, Dean!” Your voice rises. You’re not yelling, because you never yell unless it’s his name while he’s being dragged across a room by some creature. “You’ve been drinking yourself to death, and you’ve been barely eating or sleeping, and you won’t let us fucking help—”

“I don’t need your help!” Dean yells back, and you don’t flinch this time either, but your jaw snaps shut and your fists curl. Yes, yes, there it is. “I’m fucking fine! All you and Sam keep doing is asking me if I’m okay, but haven’t you thought you’re the one fucking bothering me?”

You actually look hurt this time, and Dean feels like the worst piece of shit on earth. He wants to go find another demon, let it beat him to death just for the angels to bring him back so he can do it all over again.

But he takes another step closer to you, cornering you against the dresser, because Dean doesn’t deserve soft touches, but he craves.

His skin aches with the need for your hands on him. Every second that passes, Dean is sick with his desire for you, any part of you, any brush of fingers or warmth against his cold scars. All he did in hell, every day he was tortured, was think of you. Of your sweet smile and your kind gaze and your balmy laughter.

It got him through thirty years, but he was too fucking weak still.

Dean was a fucking corward who broke in only thirty years, and he’s not worthy of your gentle hands anymore. He never really was in the first place. Maybe dad would’ve known that too.

But he still needs you. He still feels like he’s going to die every second you’re apart, like he’s going to vanish if your skin is not on his, like he’s still in hell and you’re just a fragment of his imagination.

And now your fists are clenched, and Dean needs them. He thinks of your knuckles torn on his teeth, of the ache of your bones against the soft tissue of his cheek, of his nose breaking with your pain and the crook of his nose holding the shape of it when it heals.

He’s never needed anything more in his life.

If he can’t have your love, he’ll have your anger.

“Dean—” you try, and you’re softening up. No, no, no.

“What, you’re gonna keep trying to fix me, sweetheart?” he gives you a crude smile, leaning in so close his chest presses against yours. “You can’t even fix yourself.”

That one makes your breath stutter, but you still won’t lash out. The words are now flowing out of his mouth with no control. He can’t stop, can’t take it back, he can’t get rid of the crawling in the back of his neck.

He keeps barking, showing his teeth in a snarl with the hopes you’ll finally smack him hard enough to give him a mark to keep. Just so he can come back with his tail in between his legs and beg for another one.

“Stop, Dean.” you murmur through gritted teeth, a hand on his chest pushing him back with not enough force.

“You were always too fucking soft for this life.” He usually means that as a compliment. You’re better than all of this. But now it’s meant to cut, and it does, because you push him back a little harder. “Can’t even push me off. You might want to start worrying about yourself instead.”

“I’m serious, Dean.” Your voice is harsher, and it’s coming any time now. He just needs to push a little more.

“I am too,” he murmurs your name, cold smirk flashing at you. “You spend so much time worrying about me, but I know how to do the fucking job. You, on the other hand…” He’s lying through his teeth. He doesn’t mean a single word he’s saying, but your brows furrow and your lips twist and your nails dig on his chest. “If I’m being such a fucking pain in the ass, maybe you should just leave. Make it easier for all of us.”

That one finally gets him a push. A real, strong push back that almost makes him stumble back. Because you’ve always been strong, and you know how to put up a fight, and you’re one of the best damn hunters Dean has ever encountered.

But you’re finally approaching him with heavy steps, and your fist is raising, and finally.

He closes his eyes, waiting for the thrilling spark of pain rushing down his body. Of your soft skin on his flesh in the only way he deserves. Of you, any part of you.

Maybe you’ll be the one to realize just how sick he is, and will finally put him down. Maybe he’ll even get a piece of chocolate before he goes, just a little mercy in the shape of your touch.

But instead, he feels your fingers in his jaw. Not gripping, not digging into his skin. Just holding him, and when he opens his eyes, you’re studying him with a pitiful gaze.

“I’ll go get you a pack of ice for your eye.”

No. No, no, no. What happened? What did he do wrong? How is it possible that he’s such a fucking failure, even in this?

His eyes sting, and his breath becomes rapid. He can’t think, and the thing in his chest is getting tighter and tighter. He doesn’t know what to do, how to ground himself, because he’s going to go insane without you.

“No,” he spits out, pushing your hand away from his face, and it sounds crazed even to himself.

“Dean…”

“No, you’re—uhm, you’re… dumb. You’re dumb.”

That only makes your shoulders drop even further, your scowl disappearing into a sad little frown. Insulting you won’t work, because Dean can’t find it in himself to find something actually mean to say to you.

“I’m going to—I’ll drink a thousand beers,” he sounds like a child, he knows he does. But his throat is closing, and his world is narrowing, and he needs you. “I’m gonna burn all of Sammy’s books and I’m gonna crash the car—”

“You’re not gonna hurt Baby.”

You called her Baby, Dean can’t focus on that. “I will. I’ll—hm, drive her off a clift, or…bury myself alive, set myself on fire—”

“What are you even trying to do right now, Dean?”

The problem is, Dean has no idea.

Your voice is like the first breath he took after crawling out of his grave, like the first bite of pie and the first gulp of water. You’re everything, and Dean can’t let himself have it.

He’s trying to push you away, to drag you closer. To make you hate him, to make you feel something for him. Anything.

“I’m gonna commit a massacre! Kill a bunch of people, you know, so you should stop me before I—”

“How am I supposed to stop you?” Dean wants to scream, because you’ve relaxed completely, and your voice is one hair away from amused.

“I don’t—just, fuck,” he whispers your name like a plea, taking a step closer to you. His voice breaks, and his vision goes blurry. “You—just hit me, or something. Or go, run away.”

You don’t do any of those.

Instead, you wrap your arms around him and pull him against you.

Dean Winchester breaks for the second time, because apparently his resolve will never be as strong as dad had wanted it to be.

His face buries itself on your neck, and his arms wrap around your waist like a vice. Silent tears run down his cheeks, and when they start to wet your shirt, you only pull him closer. Dean refuses to let any sounds out, but his shoulders shake and his knees go weak.

You walk him backwards to the bed, struggling to push him down onto the edge of the mattress when he’s holding onto you like a scrawny dog to a bone. Still, you get him to sit, and he only clings harder onto your middle when you bend down to kiss the top of his head.

“It’s okay. It’s okay, darling. I got you.”

You do. Dean doesn’t understand why, but you really do.

“I’m sorry—”

“Shhh.” Your hands find his jaw, forcing him to look up at you, chin resting on your stomach. And maybe he really is a dog, with the way he leans onto the hand that runs through his hair and melts against you. “I know. You don’t have to apologize, I know.”

“‘M still sorry,” he mumbles, eyelashes fluttering when your thumb wipes away the tear stains on his cheeks, just brushing the edge of the bruise around his eye. “I didn’t mean any of that.”

You giggle lowly, and it feels like it’s cleansing his soul, sewing it back together like a baby blanket that’s ruined, torn in pieces but too precious to throw away.

Like he’s too precious to throw away.

“I know that too,” you murmur, and Dean blinks up at you, arms around your hips pulling you just a tiniest bit closer. “You can be a mean motherfucker, Dean, but that was so bad.”

It really was. And stupid. Dad did always liked to say that Dean was too stupid to do things right.

“I know. I’m an idiot.” Your frown returns, so Dean hides his face on the fabric of your shirt. It can’t get more pathetic than this. “I just… the things I did in hell, sweetheart, I can’t—”

“You don’t have to talk about it,” you whisper after a long pause, your hand finding the back of his nape and softly scratching at the skin. This is so much better than anything he’s felt in years. Better than any punch, better than any fuck or any kiss, better than breathing. “But just know that, whatever you did, I don’t blame you, Dean.”

“You should.”

“No, I don’t.” He finally looks up at you, because you at least deserve for him to face you.

“You don’t know what you’re saying, baby. I was a monster, I did shit so despicable—”

“I don’t give a fuck.” He should be angrier that you keep interrupting him, but he can’t find it in himself to care enough, not when you’re still holding him like this. “I don’t care if you killed people, if you tortured souls or fucking started the end of the world. You’re still my best friend, and I still love you.”

“You should care,” he chokes out, because he can’t acknowledge the rest of that. The way it lights him up from the inside, the way he knows you don’t mean only friendly love, because he can see it in your eyes. The way he’s so close to having what he’s wanted for years but never let himself have.

“Maybe I should, but I don’t.” You lean down, closer and closer until your forehead is pressed against his. “You seem to forget I’m not a good person either.”

He wants to argue, because you are. You’re the best fucking person that has ever existed, the only ray of sunlight in his onyx sky, way better than any of this—Dean, and his demons, and the mud he’s covered in.

But then you kiss him, and he forgets about everything. His body stops throbbing, his mind stops screaming, his mouth stops tasting like blood. It’s better than the pain, better than liquor. It’s paradise, it’s the universe. You’re his universe.

His hands on your hips pull you closer, until you’re straddling his thighs and climbing on top of him. His lips against you are desperate, almost violent. But not like before—in search of an ache that’ll make him forget. He kisses you like he wants you to merge into him, until he can’t discern where he ends and where you begin.

It’s sloppier than he usually is, all teeth and spit. None of that practiced, deliberate charm he’s been perfecting for years. Just pure craving for you.

But when his tongue laps the back of your teeth, you lean back. He whines, trying to chase after you, and you just grant him one last wet peck on the lips, another one on his bruised eye, and then you’re dragging him away by the hair.

If Dean had a tail, I’d be wagging so fast right now.

Maybe you can see it, because you laugh, and it’s the sweetest sound he’s ever heard.

Dean has met angels and gods, felt the touch of both, sensed their presence and their power. But he finds true divinity in your eyes, in your hands as you press an ice pack on his face and your arms when he finally lies down on bed with you still holding him.

Everything is dark, but Dean isn’t scared of the shadows anymore. They don’t take the shape of demons, the chair in the corner doesn’t turn into his disappointed father, and the whisper of the wind doesn’t turn into Alastair’s cruel taunts.

His head is buried on your chest, right in between your breasts, when he hears you murmur:

“You’re not an idiot.” He’s confused for a moment, not really knowing what you’re talking about. “You were hurting, and you were acting like a dick, but you’re not an idiot, or stupid. You’re the strongest, bravest man I know, Dean.”

He’s speechless for a moment, lost in the light on his chest and the haze on his mind.

“And I would never hurt you,” you continue, your arms firmly wrapped around his shoulders. “I would never hit you, Dean. And you don’t deserve to be in pain, so please—you need to stop punishing yourself like that.”

There’s a lot of things he wants to say. It’s not that easy, he’s made of pain. He does deserve it, he deserves worse. He wants you to hit him, just so he can bleed for you.

But you hold him like you believe he’s worth saving, like he still has hope of being better, of being at least half the man you need. You hold him like you love him, because you do.

And he already disappointed dad, he won’t disappoint you.

“I’ll try,” he mumbles against your skin. “For you and Sammy, I’ll try.”

That is the first time Dean sleeps through the night since he’s been back. The first time he’s glad he is. Because finally, he’s actually alive.

NOTES: put that pretty boy in a situation, good. now stop, put him in another one. make it sadder. I love this man, and I love him when he's like a wet dog, all pathetic and sad, ugh. need him.

the ending of this feels kinda rushed, but this draft has been sitting on my docs for quite a while and I couldn't sleep yesterday due to my beautiful anxiety, so here it is.

thank you for reading, I love you all!

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ralivs

que coisa linda, meu Deus

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Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Series - Babylon the Great

There's something wrong with you that's not wrong with other people. You're a hunter, and a damn good one, but you might be a monster.

There might be something in you that needs to be put down. Something broken that can't be fixed.

It's why you've had one rule your whole life. The only thing your father has ever made clear is that, no matter what, you need to stay away from John Winchester. He can't even know you exist, or he'll kill you and never blink.

And when your paths cross a hunt, you should've run, but you didn't. You couldn't. Because you looked at Dean Winchester, and something changed inside of you. Something called you to him, and you can't figure out what it was, but you know it's strong. And you know that, whatever Dean's doing to you, you don't really care to fight it. Things are broken in you, just as much is broken in him, and you fit perfectly together in a way you'll never be able to describe.

But it's more complicated than that, though. The world pulls you and Dean apart again and again.

And you find your way back, again and again.

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