You wake up thirsty in the middle of the night, Dean’s also up. Fluff ensues.
You woke up at one in the morning with a throat so dry it rivaled a desert.
After a long hunt the day before, you didn’t take care of yourself at all, opting instead to change into pjs and flop into bed.
You slowly slipped off the squeaky fold-out and blearily navigated the messy motel room to the connecting bathroom, trying to keep quiet as to not wake Sam or Dean. After a few dixie cups full of water you tiptoed your way back only to run into someone. You stumbled back and looked up to see Dean.
“Why are you up so early?” He questioned, voice rough with sleep.
“I got thirsty. Why are you up?” You retorted quietly and rubbed your eye.
“Had to piss.”
“Sorry for the hold-up.”
“Whatever, go put a movie on. I’ll join in a sec.”
You nodded and the two of you went your separate ways.
The channels were severely lacking in the movie department so late at night, but you found a western that would knock you out quick and keep Dean occupied for a bit before passing out from exhaustion. While you waited for him the blankets and pillows were shuffled to make a nook to tuck in to. Dean returned and crawled into the fold-out beside you.
“Thought you were gonna go back to your bed.” You mumbled.
“Better view.” He murmured back as he shifted closer to you.
“Sure.”
It most certainly was not a better vantage point, but you weren’t gonna complain. His warmth was welcome in the cold room.
The thump of hooves and twang of barely comprehensive dialogue from the tv quickly melted your brain and pulled at your eyes. You were on the verge of dozing when Dean shifted again. He pulled you close, your back to his side and head on his bicep.
“Dean, why’d you move?” You whined and tried to get comfortable again.
“ ‘m cold.” He mumbled.
“No way, you’re literally scorching.”
“I am so shut up.”
“Whatever.”
“Whatever.” He mocked and turned to spoon you, wrapping his free arm around your stomach.
You rolled your eyes and melted into him. As much shit as you gave him, you rarely ever meant it. Especially when he wanted to initiate any sort of touch. Being a hunter was lonely, and both of you were touch starved, so it was a win-win situation when he did.
You eventually got to the point of dozing again, the movie and Dean’s breathing harmonizing into a gentle rumble that soothed your restlessness. When you reached that space of just barely hanging on to consciousness, you felt the press of warm lips against your shoulder and finally fell back asleep.
Summary: Four years after Dean disappeared, he comes back to find the life he left behind… waiting for him in the shape of a little girl with his eyes. Now it’s ghosts in the walls, love that never died and a second chance that might heal everything—or break it for good.
-requested-
Pairing: Dean x Reader
Warnings: Language, angst
Word Count: 2541
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
You were late. Again. Half your brain was on the grocery list and the other half on the neighbor’s house two doors down from yours, the one with the lights that flickered at three a.m. and the dog that wouldn’t cross the gate anymore. You told yourself it was wiring maybe old pipes. Even if you knew better.
Tomorrow was Halloween. The hallway smelled like tempera paint and orange slices. Little ghosts cut from coffee filters dangled from the ceiling on clear thread.
You rubbed at the tired spot between your eyebrows and reached for the clipboard, already forming the apology you’d give for being late, again. A man leaned over the desk, saying something low to Ms. Rivera that made her laugh in a way she didn’t for anyone else at pickup.
“…could leave my number”, he was saying, tapping the pen against the margin instead of writing. “You know, in case any of the kids mentioned noises across the street. Strange hours. Flickering lights”.
Ms. Rivera tucked a curl behind her ear. “Right. The neighbors”. Her voice brightened, like you’d just walked into a commercial for toothpaste. “I’m sure it’s nothing, but—sure, why not”.
You signed your name where it always went, thinking about canned pumpkin and whether you had enough sugar, about salt and doorways and windows that didn’t latch right. You were in your list, your little ordinary raft, when the man at the desk gave a soft laugh, and something in your chest stuttered.
It took a second. Of course it did. You’d trained yourself not to hear that sound. Still you glanced up. On reflex.
Dean’s gaze stayed on Ms. Rivera, the smile turned down just enough to look sincere. Your heart stopped anyway. That laugh, stupid, impossible, stitched into you like a scar you had learned to dress around. You told yourself it was coincidence. You told yourself a hundred men in a hundred bars had laughed like that. You told yourself anything that wasn’t his name.
“Mommy!”.
Delilah—Lilah—came at you like a small hurricane in light-up sneakers (the sweetest, clumsiest whirlwind there ever was), paper-plate craft flapping in one fist, a smudge of orange paint on her cheek. You bent without thinking, arms opening in the exact shape of her. The world righted itself around the weight of her. Play dates, park snack bags, cartoon theme songs at 6 a.m., all of it, your anchor.
“Look what I made!”, she declared, thrusting a construction-paper bat into your face. The googly eyes were crooked and perfect.
“It’s amazing”, you said, and your voice steadied on the easy truth. “Museum quality”.
Ms. Rivera cooed appropriately. “Oh, that is museum quality, Lilah. I love her little fangs”.
“Her name is Midnight”, Lilah announced, still brandishing the bat like a parade flag.
A shift in the air told you he’d finally turned. You didn’t look right away. You fixed the corner of the bat, smoothed your daughter’s hair, checked the time on the wall clock as if any of that mattered. Then you lifted your head.
He looked exactly like your memory and not at all like it. Older around the eyes, the jacket broken in deeper, the mouth still fighting not to soften. The sight of him didn’t knock you back so much as tilt the floor, just enough that you had to plant your feet.
Dean’s gaze finally met yours. It held. He looked at you like he was trying to line up two transparencies, who you’d been and who you were now, and the longer he stared, the more the room thinned to the quiet between two heartbeats.
It went on long enough that you felt Lilah’s weight lean into your leg, her patience in short supply. “Do you like her?”, she piped up, tilting the paper plate so the bat’s crooked smile faced him. “My bat. Her name is Midnight”.
The sound broke the spell. Dean’s eyes cut to her, then back to you, then to her again, like a pendulum that couldn’t decide where true was. The movement was small, precise, the way he’d always measured rooms for exits. Only now the exit seemed to be you, and the door he couldn’t quite bring himself to touch was a four-year-old with glue on her knuckles.
“She’s… awesome”, he managed, voice softened down to something careful. “Midnight’s a tough name to live up to”.
Lilah’s whole face lit. “She can fly. But not inside. Mommy says nothing´s around to fly inside”.
“Mommy’s smart”, he said, and on that word his gaze snapped back to you, pinned there a breath too long before it slid to Lilah again. The green of her eyes caught the struggling light and threw it back at him. That was when he faltered. Not much. A stutter in breath, a shift in his jaw, a tighten-and-release of his fingers at his sides, but you felt it like a temperature drop. His eyes stayed on your daughter, then flicked to you, then back as if testing the same answer three times.
“How old are you, kiddo?”, he asked, too quickly to be casual, the question pushed out on instinct, suspicion, hope - whatever ugly, holy mix lived in the space behind his ribs.
“Four", Lilah announced, very proud, holding up too many fingers and then fixing it with serious concentration. “Four”.
The number seemed to echo. You heard it bounce off the cinderblock walls, off the paper ghosts and the cup of dull pencils; you felt it land in him like a stone dropped in deep water. He looked at you, sharp, then back to her, and you could see the math drawing itself across the back of his eyes. Counting backward. Counting forward. Counting all the places where he hadn’t been.
“C’mon, baby, we need to go”, you said, scooping Lilah onto your hip. It was to her, but it was for him. An end to a conversation he hadn’t started yet and you weren’t going to have in a hallway full of paper ghosts.
Ms. Rivera’s smile faltered as her gaze bounced from Dean’s eyes to Lilah’s and back again. You watched the recognition click into place behind her professional cheer. She pressed a folder toward you like a shield. “I’ll—um—finish the attendance”, she murmured, already retreating. “See you both tomorrow”. And then she disappeared, shoes squeaking a polite escape.
“Wait”. Dean’s hand lifted, palm out, stopping short of your sleeve like he’d hit an invisible fence. “Can we—”.
“Not here”, you said, low. Lilah’s arm looped around your neck, her bat bumping your shoulder with each breath. “Not now”.
His jaw worked. Four years collapsed into the space between heartbeat and regret. “I didn’t—”. He shut his mouth, swallowed the excuse. “You’re right”. A beat. “But… can you give me a minute?”.
You angled past him toward the door. “You had a year”, you said, even, for the sake of the kid whose ear was pressed to your collarbone. “Then you had four”.
He took it, the hit and the history. “You’re angry”.
“You think?”. The edges of your voice were sanded for little ears, but the shape of the word was still sharp. “We’re done”.
Lilah patted your cheek, oblivious diplomat. “Mommy, can Midnight have sprinkles, too?”.
“Midnight can bathe in sprinkles”, you said, and kissed her temple because it helped.
Dean shifted, blocking the door just enough that you had to look at him. He didn’t touch you, or crowd. He just stood there with his questions bleeding through the seams.
He was always so much taller than you. The hallway lights caught on the slope of his shoulders, and you hated that your body remembered what it felt like to stand under his shadow.
“Dean”. You made your voice calm and flat. “Get out of my way”.
His jaw clenched, green eyes flicking down at you like he was trying to peel back every layer you’d built since he left. “Just… a minute. That’s all I’m asking”.
“You already long enough”, you snapped, low enough that Lilah wouldn’t hear it as more than a hum in your chest.
He flinched but didn’t move. “I just—look, we could grab a coffee. Sit down. Talk like adults”. His voice dropped, softer, trying for gentler. “Catch up”.
You laughed once, sharp and bitter. “Catch up? Like we lost touch after high school? You ghosted me, Dean. Vanished. And now you want coffee?”.
He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing like the words cost him. “I had reasons”.
“Yeah? So did I”. You shifted Lilah higher on your hip. “Mine wore diapers”.
His eyes dropped, just for a second, to the girl nestled against you. Then they snapped back to your face, as if he wasn’t allowed to stare too long, as if staring too long would break something he didn’t know how to fix. Still, you the loop his gaze kept making: Lilah’s lashes, your mouth, Lilah’s hands, your eyes. Back and forth, like a man trying to solve a puzzle without touching the pieces.
“She’s beautiful”, he said, quiet, reverent. “She’s… she’s got your smile”.
The lie hung there, soft and heavy. You didn’t correct him. You didn’t need to. His gaze gave him away, lingering on the green in her eyes, the stubborn lift of her chin, the way her curls bounced when she fidgeted. He didn’t say the words, but the question was in every breath he took.
“She likes loud cars”, you said flatly, because if he wanted clues, you’d toss them like knives.
He blinked, the corner of his mouth twitching in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Figures”. He exhaled, almost shaky. “So she’s—”.
“Don’t finish that sentence”.
His hands flexed at his sides, the fight in him trying to crawl out, but he held it down. “I just… I need to know if—”. He caught himself, scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “If you’re okay. If you both are”.
You met his eyes, steady. “We are. Without you”.
The words landed, and he didn’t even try to dodge them. He nodded once, slow, like he deserved every bit of it. Still, he didn’t move.
“Coffee”, he said again, quieter, like maybe if he whispered it you’d hear something else in it. “Just half an hour. No excuses or vanishing. Just… me and you. Please”.
You stood there in the too-bright hallway with paper pumpkins rustling and Lilah humming against your shoulder, and you hated that a part of you wanted to believe him.
“Get out of my way, Dean”, you said again, softer this time, but no less certain.
His throat worked. For a moment, you thought he might argue. Then, finally, he shifted sideways, giving you space. But his eyes followed you, asking all the things he couldn’t say out loud, burning with a truth he was too much of a coward, or too much of a Winchester, to name.
And you walked past, Lilah in your arms, every step steady even though your chest was on fire.
Later, in the bathroom that smelled like bubble soap and wet towels, with steam fogging the mirror, you rolled your sleeves up, kneeling on the bathmat with one hand steady on Lilah’s back as she splashed and hummed, glue peeling off her little fingers in gummy strings.
“Don’t eat it”, you warned, pulling the sticky wad away before she could test her luck.
“I wasn’t!”, she giggled, then immediately changed the subject, because that’s what four-year-olds did. “Mommy, did you see the black car? The loud one?”.
Your chest tightened. You reached for the shampoo bottle, forcing your voice into its calm, bedtime cadence. “Yeah, I saw it”.
“It was shiny”, she said dreamily, tilting her head back so you could lather her curls. “And so big. Not like ours. Ours is… ours is squeaky”.
“Our car gets us where we need to go”, you said, rinsing her hair with the plastic cup, watching the suds slide down her shoulders.
“But the black one was like—vroom!”. She made the noise with her whole body, water sloshing over the side of the tub. “Can we get one like that?”.
You swallowed hard, focusing on rinsing the last of the shampoo from her curls as she splashed and squealed about engines and vrooms.
“Can we get one?”, she asked again, stubborn in the way only Dean Winchester’s child could be.
You wrapped the towel around her small, slippery body and lifted her out, settling her onto the bathmat. She giggled as you rubbed her hair dry, soap bubbles popping under your palms.
And all you could think about was the Impala. That night.
Rain pelting down hard enough to blur the motel sign across the lot. Cold air spilling in every time the passenger door opened and slammed shut. Sam’s tall shadow moving inside, muttering something about giving you two five minutes, which had stretched into thirty.
You remembered the creak of leather under you, the way Dean had dragged you into his lap, his hands gripping your thighs like he couldn’t believe you were real and alive after what you’d just faced. You remembered how the windows fogged faster than you could wipe them clear, how his mouth moved against your jaw, your neck, your chest like he was starving.
And the way the world had gone quiet in that front seat, with the hunt behind you, the storm outside and his body warm and solid beneath yours. That night had left more than memory. It had left your little girl.
You cleared your throat, willing the memory back into its box, sealing it tight before it could leak out where she might see it on your face.
“Someday, maybe”, you murmured, kissing the top of her damp curls. It was easier than saying never, easier than explaining that the car she was dreaming about had already given her all it was ever going to give.
She giggled when you spread the towel wide, then squealed as you wrapped her up tight, tucking every corner in until she was nothing but a squirming little burrito with green eyes peeking out from the folds.
“Mommy! I’m stuck!”.
“That’s the point”, you teased, securing the last corner. “No escape for the burrito”.
She wriggled delighted. “Burrito with sprinkles!”.
You laughed, the sound breaking something loose in your chest, and lifted her against your hip, towel trailing like a cape. She pressed her wet cheek against your neck, and for a moment, just a moment, the memories dulled, the Impala faded, the storm quieted.
This was what you had now: sprinkles, towels, bedtime stories. Not the growl of an engine in the night. Not the man who drove it.
Summary: A crying baby, rising pain and a tumor that won’t stop. Mark´s running out of time and all that’s left is love, heartbreak and a fragile bit of hope.
-requested-
Pairing: Mark x Reader
Warnings: Language, Angst
Word Count: 2350
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
You had only been out of the shower for a minute when you heard Ally’s cries echo off the hallway walls. Mark was trying. God, you knew he was trying.
You wrapped your towel tighter around your sore, still-healing body and moved carefully down the hall. Everything in you ached. Not just from the birth, but from the way life had been piling on lately.
The door to the nursery was cracked open. You saw him hunched over in the glider, Ally cradled in one arm, bottle in the other. His jaw was tight, his eyes narrowed. That vein near his temple, the one you dreaded, already pulsing hard.
“C’mon, baby girl”, he muttered under his breath, his voice unded like sandpaper, “just take it—fuck—take the damn bottle”. Ally wailed louder.
You could tell the pain had crept in. The tumor again. It always hit at the worst times. He’d been hiding it better before the birth, always brushing off your worry with a gritted smile and a muttered “I’m fine”. But not tonight. Tonight, he looked like he was about to break.
You moved toward them slow and quiet. He didn’t notice at first, his hand was trembling as he tried to adjust the bottle’s angle, his other arm going rigid, muscles twitching from holding her too tight.
“Mark”, you said softly.
He flinched like he’d been shot.
“I’ve got her”, you added, reaching out. Not just for Ally, but for him, too. For the part of him that never asked for help even when he was drowning.
“I got it!”, he snapped, louder than he meant to, maybe louder than he even realized.
The sharpness in his voice sliced through the room. Ally jerked in his arms, her tiny fists flailing, her face scrunching tighter as her cries rose into a desperate wail.
Your heart clenched. Not just at the sound, but at the look that crashed over Mark’s face in the next breath. Regret. Instant and raw and so damn brutal.
“Shit”, he muttered, pulling her closer like he could somehow undo it. “I didn’t mean—fuck, I didn’t mean to scare her—”.
You stepped forward again, slower this time, gentler. “Mark. Give her to me”.
He looked up, and for a second, he didn’t look like your husband. He looked like a man unraveling. Haunted, sleep-starved, battling something deeper than just pain. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin pale, and that vein in his temple was beating like a war drum. He just stared at you, like maybe if he sat perfectly still, the whole thing would stop. The crying, the guilt and the pounding in his head.
But Ally kept screaming. And he cracked. “Fuck”, he hissed, slamming the bottle down onto the side table so hard the plastic bounced. His free hand gripped the arm of the chair like he needed something to anchor him, something to keep him from shattering into pieces.
You didn’t flinch. Even though everything in you wanted to wrap your arms around him, you kept your voice steady. For Ally. For him. For yourself. “Mark. Let me take her”.
“She won’t stop”, he choked out. “I—I tried. I’ve been sitting here for twenty fucking minutes, and she just keeps—”. He didn’t finish.
You moved in slowly, not to startle either of them. Her, fragile and red-faced; him, barely holding it together. You crouched in front of the glider, ignoring the ache in your legs, your ribs, the tight pull of healing scars across your abdomen.
“She’s okay”, you whispered, voice soft as breath. “You’re okay”.
Mark didn’t respond. His jaw was clenched, his eyes locked on Ally like she was a stranger he’d already failed.
You reached out carefully, easing her from his arms. She was stiff at first, fists balled, breath catching in sharp hiccups from how long she’d been crying. But then her little body relaxed the second she settled against you, chest to chest, skin to skin. She knew your heartbeat. She knew your smell. She knew you were safety.
And just like that, she stopped. The only sound in the room was her ragged little breathing, settling slowly into something steady. You picked up the bottle he’d thrown down, checked it, then offered it to her gently. She latched without protest.
Mark stared, hands limp in his lap now. That haunted, hollow look in his eyes deepened.
You stood slowly, knees creaking under the weight of your healing body and your now-dozing daughter. Every muscle felt like it had aged ten years in the last two weeks, but you didn’t complain. You couldn’t. Not when he was sitting there looking like the floor might crack open and swallow him whole.
Ally stayed tucked against you, warm and small and soft. Still drinking, barely now, just enough to keep her close.
“I’ll be right back”, you said quietly, already moving toward the hallway. “Keep breathing”.
Mark didn’t answer, but you saw the slight nod. Barely there.
You made your way to the bathroom, flipping on the dim light with your elbow. The mirror reflected your own exhaustion right back at you. Sunken eyes, damp hair from the rushed shower, towel still bunched under your arm where you hadn’t bothered to fix it. You looked like someone who’d just walked off a battlefield. And maybe… you had.
You grabbed the pill bottle that sat behind the mirror, tucked in with a mess of other prescriptions, without needing to read the label. You knew the weight of it by heart now. Topiramate. One of the few things that didn’t make him feel worse. Not better, not really. Just… a little less worse.
You opened it with one hand, Ally still nestled tight against you, and counted the tablets automatically. Eight left.
He’d taken one this morning, you had watched him. But it hadn’t touched the pain. Not this time.
It had been like this for almost three weeks now. The pain was getting worse. And faster. You knew the signs, his agitation, the tremors in his hands, the way he rubbed at his temple like he could dig the thing out of his skull.
He’d chalked it up to stress. Sleepless nights. The crying. The worry. You weren’t sure if that was the truth or just the version he needed to believe to keep going.
You walked back into the nursery, bottle tucked under your chin, pill clutched loosely in your fingers. Mark hadn’t moved. His elbows were still on his knees, head hanging. He looked up when you re-entered, and the moment his eyes met yours, you saw the pain.
“She’s asleep”, you whispered. “Almost”.
He nodded once, slowly, like he was afraid to move too fast.
You handed him the pill. He hesitated. “Babe”, you said gently. “Don’t argue”.
“I already took one today”.
“I know. This one’s not about prevention. It’s about not collapsing in front of your daughter again”.
His lips twitched, not into a smile, but something like it. Bitter and aching. He took the pill, dry swallowing it in one practiced tilt of the head.
You moved back toward him, gently rocking Ally now. Her lips had fallen off the bottle, and she was curled into your chest like she’d never leave.
Mark was staring at her again. “She’s so fucking small”, he muttered, voice hoarse, like it physically hurt to speak. “And I’m already fucking her up”.
You stayed quiet. You knew he wasn’t looking for comfort, not yet. He was bleeding, and sometimes you had to let the wound speak before you could start to clean it.
“I can’t even feed my own daughter”, he hissed, barely holding the tremor out of his voice. “She screamed the whole time. She screamed because of me”.
“She screamed because she’s a newborn”, you said gently, bouncing Ally ever so slightly as her breathing deepened, her cheek warm against your chest. “She screamed because the world is big and loud and her stomach’s the size of a grape”.
He shook his head, eyes narrowing, not at you, at himself. “No. She screamed because I was holding her wrong. I couldn’t get the angle. I couldn’t get the bottle right. I couldn’t stay calm”.
You saw his spiral happening in real time. The slide into that dark, jagged place where he carved every failure into himself like penance.
“I’ve interrogated cartel leaders with more control than I had five minutes ago”, he said, spitting the words like poison. “And now I’m just sitting here shaking like some goddamn—”.
“Stop”. He blinked.
Your voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through. Ally stirred a little and you adjusted her automatically, patting her back with slow, practiced motions.
“She doesn’t need perfect”, you said again. “She doesn’t need a soldier or a cop or someone who never messes up. She needs you. The you who stays even when it’s hard. The you who tried, even through the pain. Who showed up even when your head was splitting open”.
He looked at you, and the glassiness in his eyes gave way to something worse, self-loathing. “You looked scared when you walked in”, he said quietly. “Not of the crying. Of me”.
You swallowed hard. “I was scared for you”.
“Same thing”.
“No”, you said firmly this time. “It’s not”. You shifted, carefully sitting down beside him again, holding Ally between you. You guided his hand to her tiny back. He resisted for a second, but you didn’t let go. Slowly, hesitantly, he let his palm rest there. Her body rose and fell with each breath, soft and warm and alive. “You didn’t fail her”, you said. “You’re here. Even when you’re hurting, even when you think you’re screwing everything up—you’re here”.
He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing like it hurt, and you watched his jaw clench again before he finally shook his head, frustrated.
You didn’t push him. You just whispered, soft and steady, “Go lay down. I got this”.
He scoffed, bitter, wrecked, and low. “Yeah? Got this?”. His voice cracked. “You’re two weeks out from nearly dying giving birth and you’re still the one getting up at night. You’re the one feeding her. Rocking her. Holding me together”. He finally looked at you, and it was like looking at a man losing a fight with himself. “Not only am I failing her, I’m failing you, too”.
You started to shake your head, but he kept going, chest rising and falling too fast.
“I see you limping around the house when you think I’m not watching. Wincing when you sit down, pulling your shirt over the bandage too carefully like it doesn’t feel like hell. And still—still—you’re the one doing the most, because I can’t fucking function. I can’t be in this house without the walls spinning and my skull feeling like it’s gonna crack open. And you…”. He laughed once, hollow. “You’re the one telling me to go rest”.
You didn’t speak at first. Just let the air between you cool, let his words settle. Because you knew how much it had cost him to say them out loud.
Mark’s pain had always come in waves. That was how the doctors explained it. Pressure in his brain would build, settle, build again. Some days were fine. Some were even good, he’d make coffee, kiss you and make dumb jokes in that low voice that always softened your bones.
But not lately. For the last three weeks, it had barely let up. And it was wearing him down. Not just physically. All of him.
You reached out and took his hand again, lacing your fingers through his. He didn’t resist. “Mark”, you said softly, voice steady but full of everything you didn’t want to cry about, “you’re not failing me”.
He opened his mouth, probably to argue.
“No”, you cut in gently. “Listen to me. You think you’re failing because the pain’s in control right now. But you’re here. You haven’t left. You take every wave, every flare-up, every breakdown and you stay. That’s not failure. That’s the bravest damn thing I’ve ever seen”.
He looked away, blinking fast, jaw twitching. “Then why do I feel like I’m drowning?”.
“Because you are”, you whispered. “And I am too, sometimes. But that’s why we take turns pulling each other up. Not because one of us is stronger. But because we don’t let the other sink”.
Ally stirred again in your arms, just a small twitch, a sleepy sigh, but it broke the tension like a pin to a balloon. Mark looked at her, red-cheeked and milk-drunk, and for just a moment, the sharpness in his face softened.
“She looks like you when she’s asleep”, he muttered.
You smiled, tired but real. “She’s got your mouth. That little grumpy pout? All you”.
He let out a breath. Not quite a laugh, but close. “God help her, then”.
You squeezed his hand. “Go lay down. Just for a little while. I’ll wake you if I need you”.
He looked at you, eyes tracing over the slope of your shoulders, the sag in your posture, the stubborn tenderness still etched across your face even with everything you were carrying.
“You always say that”, he whispered.
“And I mean it. Every time”.
He hesitated, then nodded. Slow, reluctant, but a nod nonetheless. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the top of Ally’s head. Then to your shoulder. His lips lingered there a second longer than usual. “Thank you”, he murmured.
wordcount: 767
summary: despite having the dream life, Dean can’t help but focus on the stubborn patch of skin on his stomach– maybe that’s what his wife is for, making ‘im forget all about it with gentle words of reassurance.
warnings: cursing, fem!reader, body image issues, kissing, angst if you squint, fluff, comfort.
Dean never once thought he’d actually get a chance to have a ‘normal’ life, yet here he was, picket fence and all. The house was everything his freckled, chubby faced kid self dreamt about while napping in the back of John’s car. It was big enough to completely contrast every motel room he’s ever slept in, photos of his chosen family littering the halls, a cozy room his wife decorated (thank God he let you choose the color– red walls was not the move), wooden floors that echoed his kid’s footsteps running over them every morning…
Life was finally good to him– too good– he thinks to himself while standing in front of the bathroom mirror. Jesus Christ when did all of that get there? His roughened hands grip at the soft fat that now covered what was once abs. He has a dad stomach, I mean he is a dad but still! Him?
Dean Winchester. World famous hunter. Michael 's vessel. Savior of the World. Him?
For God’s sake how come he never noticed? Had you noticed? Well of course you did– you lived with him, saw him everyday– there’s no way you didn’t. Why hadn’t you said anything? This version was nothing like the Ken doll Dean you met back in the day, he’s always been so used to relying on his looks, now he didn’t even have that?
Unbeknownst to you, your husband was having a full blown crisis while you’re calmly putting the baby to sleep– which was much easier now that your toddlers were nowhere in sight. It isn’t until you step into the bedroom that you catch a glimpse of a very frowny Dean in front of the bathroom mirror.
“Baby?” Your soft voice snaps him out of his self-deprecating train of thought.
“Sweetheart, why didn’t y’ tell me I was getting all–” he gestures vaguely to his stomach, clearly displeased “ –round.”
“All round?” You echo with a gentle (slightly disbelieving) chuckle, stepping closer to him in the small bathroom to place a featherlight kiss on his shoulder, careful hands trailing down his back muscles.
“Yeah,” Dean nods like it was the most obvious, wildest thing in the World “I look like a middle aged man.”
“Honey, you are a middle aged man…”
The look that meets you in the mirror is nothing short of unamused. “Y’know what I mean.”
“I know, I know…” you press another soft kiss between his shoulder blades, arms snaking around his waist to grab at the ‘oh so offending’ pouch of stomach. “Guess I never really stopped to think about it, why’re ya so focused on it?”
Seeing your husband’s shrug is what finally sends alerts ringing in your mind, could this man possibly think he wasn’t attractive anymore?
“Really?” You coax him, all the patience and love you could despite wanting to slap him for ever thinking some bullshit like that.
“It’s just weird, y’know?” Dean’s gravelly voice sounded doubtful for once. “Always been this jacked, badass hunter n’ now I’m just… this” once more he gestures to his body.
“Honestly?” You catch his attention by sliding around to stand between him and the mirror. “I prefer this version of Dean” God, you should’ve taken a picture of the face he makes. “Don’t get me wrong, baby-faced Dean was amazing… but dad bod Dean is the man I made a life with.”
Despite your husband’s stubbornness to maintain a grumpy, stubborn facade– you see the crinkles by his eyes that signaled his fond smile.
“This, as you call it–” you continue, gesturing to his soft belly, “ –was what held me when the nerves of leaving The Life got to my head, when we welcomed all of our beautiful kids to this messed up World, when I go to bed every night…” Each word is punctuated by a soft rub of your thumb over his stubbled cheek. “So yeah, I didn’t mention anything cause I never cared about it, Dean. I care about seeing my smoking hot husband smile everyday in this quiet life we built together.”
He chuckles softly, a deep rumble bubbling from his ribs as his hands cradle the sides of your head. “Y’know… baby-faced Dean would call this a chick flick moment.” There it is, that stupid humor and that boyish grin you missed– even if you roll your eyes at him right now.
“But smoking hot husband Dean ‘preciates it sweetheart.” He leans down to press a tender, all too familiar kiss to your lips, smiling against it.
“Anytime.” You chuckle softly, pressing another soft, fleeting peck to his lips.
might make a smut part 2 if y'all would like that...?
A sweet little "Dean is so happy, he winds up getting a Dad Bod, and doesn't like it, so you assuage his doubts" Apple Pie Hubby!Dean x wifey!reader 🩵💜
Dean decides to treat his girl to a birthday she'll never forget, because hey, your only 40 once! (yes of course I did a Dean version 😊🥰 enjoy guys 🥰 ❤️)
You lie there for a second, confused… until you hear soft music drifting from the kitchen and the quiet clink of dishes.
A smile spreads across your face.
“Dean…” you murmur.
You pull on one of his shirts and wander down the small motel hallway.
When you step into the small kitchenette area, you stop dead.
Standing at the stove is Dean Winchester, sleeves rolled up, completely focused as he flips pancakes in the pan like a pro.
Not a single burned edge in sight.
There’s a full spread already on the counter:
Bacon. Eggs. Fresh fruit. Coffee.
And what looks suspiciously like apple pie cooling by the window.
You lean against the doorway, watching him for a moment.
“Okay… now I’m impressed.”
Dean glances over his shoulder.
That slow grin spreads across his face the second he sees you.
“Well, look who finally woke up.”
“Have you been up long?”
He shrugs casually.
“Couple hours.”
Your eyes widen.
“Dean!”
“What?” he says defensively. “Birthday breakfast.”
“You didn’t have to do all this.”
He flips another pancake perfectly.
“Yeah, I did.”
A few minutes later you’re sitting at the little table while Dean slides a plate in front of you.
Stack of pancakes.
Perfectly golden.
“You made these?” you ask suspiciously.
He scoffs.
“Woman, I’ve been cooking since before you knew me.”
You take a bite.
Your eyes widen.
“Oh my god.”
Dean leans back in his chair, smug.
“Right?”
“These are amazing.”
“Damn right they are.”
After breakfast he pours you another cup of coffee and sits beside you instead of across from you.
Close enough that your knees bump.
Outside the motel window the morning sun is just coming up.
“You doing okay with the whole forty thing?” he asks.
You shrug.
“I guess. It’s weird.”
Dean studies you for a second.
Then he shakes his head.
“Don’t get it.”
“Get what?”
“Why people act like it’s a bad thing.”
He gestures toward you.
“You’re tougher than most hunters I know. You make better pie than half the diners we’ve stopped at. And you somehow put up with my crap.”
You laugh.
“That last one’s a full-time job.”
“Exactly.”
His voice softens.
“So yeah… forty suits you.”
Your cheeks warm.
A little later he grabs the keys and nods toward the door.
“Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
Dean smirks.
“Drive.”
Of course.
Soon you’re cruising down the road in Baby, classic rock playing softly while the morning sun pours through the windows.
Dean drives with one hand on the wheel, relaxed.
You glance over at him.
“Best breakfast I’ve had in years, by the way.”
He grins.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“You doubted me.”
“I had reason!”
He laughs.
“Next time I’ll make you my chili.”
“Oh I’ve heard about that.”
“Legendary.”
By evening you end up parked by a quiet lake.
No hunt. No monsters. Just the two of you.
Dean pulls a cooler from the backseat.
Inside is dinner he packed earlier.
“Dean… did you seriously cook twice today?”
He shrugs.
“Birthday rules.”
You sit together on the hood of the Impala, sharing food and watching the sun set over the water.
For once the world feels calm.
Dean nudges your shoulder.
“Make a wish yet?”
“I did this morning.”
“Good one?”
You smile.
“Yeah.”
He studies your face for a moment.
Then he reaches over and gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.
“Happy birthday,” he says quietly.
You lean over and kiss him.
Dean hums happily against your lips.
When you pull back, he’s smiling that crooked Winchester smile.
“Best part of the day,” he says.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He bumps your shoulder again.
“But wait until you try the pie later.”
You laugh.
“You’re unbelievable.”
Dean just leans back against the Impala, satisfied.
“Damn right I am.”
Night settles quietly around the motel.
The hunt-free day has left the two of you relaxed in that rare way hunters almost never get to feel.
You’re sitting on the edge of the bed while Dean finishes cleaning up the small kitchenette from the dinner he cooked earlier. You offered to help but he politely told you to sit your sweet ass down.
You watch him from across the room.
Sleeves still rolled up. Hair slightly messy. Humming along to the classic rock playing softly from his phone.
“You know,” you say casually, “I’m starting to think you’ve been hiding the whole ‘amazing cook’ thing from me.”
Dean glances over his shoulder.
“That supposed to be a compliment?”
“It is,” you say. “Tonight was… pretty perfect.”
He dries his hands and leans against the counter, studying you for a second.
That familiar smirk slowly creeps across his face.
“Well,” he says, voice dropping just a little, “birthday’s not over yet.”
Your eyebrow lifts.
“Oh?”
“Yeah.”
He walks over, stopping right in front of you.
“Still got one more thing planned.”
“Is it more food?”
Dean laughs softly.
“Trust me,” he murmurs, “you’re gonna like this one better.”
He reaches past you to turn the lamp down, leaving the room in that soft golden glow.
Your heart starts beating a little faster.
Dean notices.
Of course he does.
He always does.
“You nervous?” he asks, amused.
“Should I be?”
“Maybe.”
He steps a little closer, resting his hands on either side of you on the bed.
Now you’re very aware of how close he is.
“You know,” he says quietly, “I’ve been thinking about something all day.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“Yeah, probably.”
His eyes flick down to your lips.
“You.”
Your breath catches slightly.
“Me?”
He nods slowly.
“Forty years on this planet… and somehow you still manage to surprise me.”
“With what?”
Dean’s hand comes up to gently tilt your chin toward him.
“With how damn beautiful you are.”
Your cheeks warm instantly.
“Dean…”
“What?” he grins. “Birthday means I get to say nice things.”
“Oh is that the rule?”
“Yep.”
Then he leans in and kisses you.
Slow.
Warm.
The kind of kiss that starts soft but deepens when neither of you pulls away.
When he finally does lean back, his forehead rests lightly against yours.
Summary: It's Valentine's night, 1999, which means it's time for the annual party at the mines in this small Pennsylvania mining town. But this year will be unlike any other when terror erupts and he has one target in particular in mind...
Pairing: Tom Hanniger x reader
Word Count: 3,800ish
Warnings: language, all the usual horror movie things
A/N: Happy Valentine's Day! Please enjoy my very first Tom Hanniger fic! While this story does diverge from what happens in the movie, do not read without having seen the movie first as there as some plot spoilers within! (That means you @zepskies 😂)
“Can I watch Halloween?” asked your little brother Terry. You sighed over the top of your book, the ten year old staring back with pleading eyes. “Please?”
“Are you going to get nightmares?” He shook his head as you flicked your eyes back to the page. “No way in hell, kid.”
“Come on! Mom and dad will never know.”
“Yes they will because you’ll have nightmares and demand to sleep in their room for the next month. Watch Pokemon or something,” you said.
“It’s eight on a Friday night,” he deadpanned back. “Pokemon isn’t on.”
“Well, we’re both disappointed with how our nights are going then,” you said absentmindedly, closing your eyes when you say him pout. “Sorry. I had plans to go to a party was all.”
“Why do teenagers have parties at night? Don’t you guys get tired?” You smirked as he plopped down on the end of the couch.
“Ask me that in 9 years when you’re my age,” you chuckled, sitting up and tucking your book on the coffee table. “Alright. How about I let you watch something rated R but I pick. Deal?”
“I’m making popcorn!” He hopped up and ran over to the kitchen, your ears perking up at the sound of the house phone ringing. You got up and picked up the phone from the cradle.
“Hel-”
“Y/N, it’s mom.” Her voice was off, a frown immediately on your face. “Where are you and Terry?”
“In the house? What-”
“I want you to go next door to the Robsen’s right now. Right now. Don’t ask questions.”
“Mom-”
“Do what I tell you!” Your eyebrows were sky high when the call ended, less than a minute passing before you were grabbing Terry by the arm.
“What did mom want?”
“Listen to me,” you said, his whole body stiffening at your tone. “Put on your sneakers and jacket. Now.”
He did as told, watching you slip into your own. You took his hand and jogged across the yard to the Robsen’s, the door already opening before you could ring the bell.
“Get inside kids,” said Mr. Robsen, a shotgun in his hand.
“Terry, go see if Mrs. Robsen has some cookies,” you said. He didn’t buy it but he knew enough not to argue. Mr. Robsen sighed at you, shaking his head when you were alone. “What is happening?”
“Your mom is safe.” Your eyes went wide but he saw you about to start freaking out. “A miner was brought into the hospital, you know Harry Warden?”
“Yeah…” He wiped a hand over his mouth, pulling you into the quite dining room. “The one in a coma after the accident. What-”
“He killed the other survivors in the mine.”
“What the fuck?” He glared at your language but you shook your head. “What-”
“The town is keeping it quiet but Y/N, he woke up and just killed a bunch of people at the hospital.” Your heart dropped, Mr. Robsen shushing you. “Your mom is safe. She and some other nurses barricaded themselves.”
“I um, I need to call my dad. He…he’s on a work trip,” you said, trying to remember the name of the hotel.
“Honey, don’t worry about that. But Harry’s lost it and there’s no telling who he’s going to attack next. You and Terry need to stay here with us until it’s safe, okay?”
“Yeah…yeah that’s-” Your heart clenched. “Tom.”
“Tom? Tom Hanniger?” You nodded, tears welling in your eyes. “Why-”
“Because everyone thinks the accident was his fault. I’m sure Harry thinks that…I have to go. There’s a party in the mines tonight for Valentine’s like there always is. I have to-” Mr. Robsen grabbed your arm when you tried to leave but you shook your head. “I’m sorry.”
He grunted when you kicked him in the balls and ran out the front door, rushing across the yards and over to your dad’s truck. “Y/N!”
You grabbed the keys from the visor flap and turned the ignition, already backing out by the time he was down his front steps. You gripped the wheel tight, swallowing thickly as you sped down the quite streets of your small town.
“Dammit, dammit.” You floored it as much as the truck could take, cop cars passing you and not even bothering to stop you. You spun the wheel and in a few minutes, hit gravel, the truck fishtailing as you swung it around the path down to the mines. You nearly slammed head on into Axel’s truck as he rounded the bend, both of you braking hard.
“Where’s Tom!” you shouted when you rolled down the window.
“It’s too late!” He yelled, the girls shrieking on the bench seat beside him. “He had him cornered. You have to-”
“You left him?” you snarled. Five seconds later, you nearly rolled the truck as you sped down to the mine entrance. There was no sign of Tom or Harry, only sounds of Pearl Jam playing faintly from a boom box nearby and overturned coolers. You parked, taking the pepper spray in the glove compartment out, tucking it in your back pocket.
Everything felt wrong when you exited the vehicle. There was a stench, something foul like death in the air. Carefully, you entered the bright mine, grabbing an old shovel laying near the old storage locker. You didn’t make it more than three feet before you spotted blood and a body.
You jerked, gripping the shovel hard. Leave. You were about to make the biggest horror movie mistake you could. You needed to just get the fuck out of there.
A startled shout snapped you out of it. “Harry. H-Harry stop!”
You ran towards his voice, panic in your veins when you saw Tom on the ground, staring up helplessly at a figure in a mining outfit, bloody pickaxe in his hand.
“Hey, Harry!” The figure turned, in a full mask, but he wasn’t quick enough to stop you from bashing the end of the shovel against the side of his head. He stumbled backwards, dropping the pick as he fell. You brought the shovel down again on his body and once more, a pained shout escaping him. A bone snapped on the next hit and then he was screaming, gripping his leg. “You tried to kill my mom, asshole! Tom didn’t do jack shit to you, psycho!”
“Y/N!” You panted over Harry, holding the shovel for dear life when you spotted two officers from the sheriff’s department rushing inside the mine. They took in the scene for a moment, adrenaline coursing through you. “Y/N…put down the shovel.”
You ignored them, choosing to turn to Tom who looked equally horrified and in awe. You held out a hand, Tom shakily taking it, letting you pull him to his feet. He was covered in blood but you still had him lean on you, the officers taking Harry into custody while you walked out to the entrance with Tom. You ditched the shovel and walked him over to the side of the truck, holding him by the waist before you hugged him tightly.
“Y-You sav…savd…” He shivered, resting his chin on your shoulder. You shushed him, putting a hand on top of his head. “Isum..safvd.”
“You’re in shock. S’okay. It’s okay,” you whispered, Tom holding you too hard, blood smearing your cheek. He kept gripping your jacket, fisting it tight in his large hands. More cars arrived, one of the older officers approaching the two of you.
“You kids alright?”
“Is the hospital open?” you asked. He pressed his lips together, chewing his bottom lip. “He’s in shock and needs a doctor. Now.”
He shook his head and grumbled. “I would not take that boy anywhere public right now. Warden just killed twenty some odd people at the hospital all because of-”
You slapped the officer across the face. Hard. More than a few heads whipped around at you, Tom jerking behind your body.
“He covered for his asshole father and this town is too far up Walter Hanniger’s ass to even realize that there’s no way in hell a nineteen year old kid that drives the forklift would have been operating the oxygen lines. You want to blame someone for those miner’s deaths? Blame Walter. You want to blame someone for murdering half the town tonight? Blame that psycho in there. But don’t you dare,” you got in the officers face, his feet stepping backwards, “Dare, blame Thomas Hanniger. Now call the hospital, tell them we’re on our way, and make sure that the best damn psychologist that works there is waiting for us.”
You turned and took Tom’s hand, walking him over to the passenger side of the truck. You tucked him away inside, shedding your jacket to let him hold onto in the process.
“Call. Now,” you barked at the officer when you rounded the hood back to the drivers side. When you got in the truck, you rolled up the window, Tom sitting in the middle of the bench seat, clutching your jacket in his lap. You grabbed his hand, giving it a squeeze. “We’re just going to make sure you’re okay and then you’re going to come over my house and stay the night, okay?”
“T-They left me behind.” He was speaking to himself more than you. You weren't sure what horrors he’d just lived through but you could imagine it was enough to give him a lifetime of trauma if the one body you had seen was enough to go off.
“You’re okay,” you said softly, trying not to think of how your friends, his own girlfriend, had left him behind to die. “You’re okay, Tom. I’m right here.”
He nodded, holding your hand so hard it went it numb, all the way to the hospital.
“Things are a bit chaotic around here but I want to admit him for the night for a few hours at least to monitor. You made the right call to bring him here. I-” The doctor's pager went off for the millionth time again, the doctor cursing under this breath. “Can you stay with him until I can get back? Just keep him under the blanket, talk calmly. You saved his life so he sees you as a protector right now, even though he can’t articulate that at the moment. I know I’m asking a lot kid but-”
“But you have plenty of people in this hospital to take care of. I understand.” You watched him go before sitting on the edge of Tom’s bed, the blanket draped over his legs. You rubbed his back, his head going between his knees. “Soooo would now be a bad time to drop that I’ve been crushing on you since I was thirteen?”
His head slowly raised, the fogginess gone from his eyes, confusion in it’s place. “You’ve had a crush on me for the past six years?”
“While you are quite abhorrent,” you teased, stroking his freshly cleaned cheek, “I do quite enjoy looking at your face and hearing the words that come out of it.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, sitting up more, shaking his head. “Are you the one in shock? You, Y/N Y/L/N, do not have a crush on me. You like Axel.”
“Who the hell told you that?”
“Uh, Sarah?” You raised an eyebrow, his own raising. “My Sarah? She told me in like middle school-”
“Dude, I told her I liked you in middle school. Next thing I know, you two are a thing and I’m watching my best friend with my other best friend for the better part of the next five years.”
“You went to prom with Axel though.” You rolled your eyes. Was dating in your small town what you wanted to talk about right now? Not at all. Was it distracting Tom? Absolutely and you’d divulge all your darkest secrets if it meant he wasn’t a shaky, incoherent mess again.
“Thomas, you are so sweet you never saw what was in front of your face. Axel likes Sarah. She was my best friend so yeah, he would hang out with me sometimes. He is shit at sex by the way. I think he lasted six seconds my first time. Yeah, I was super eager to get with that real winner again.”
He cocked his head at you, biting his bottom lip to fight back a smile. “I always liked you but then Sarah happened and…she told me I was like a brother to you.”
“I have a brother. What I feel towards you is not brotherly,” you said, Tom smiling faintly. “The joys of school drama.”
“Yeah, well. After tonight, I think I know who actually gives a shit about me and who doesn’t.” You sighed, throwing your arm over his shoulders. “You didn’t leave Terry alone to come get me, did you?”
“Ditched him at the neighbors.” He nodded, resting his head against your shoulder. “This is probably the wrong thing to say at this moment but there is a high probability my mom kills me tonight for running at a spree killer with a shovel.”
“I’ll save you. I owe you one.” He chuckled to himself. “Only you would know the difference between a serial killer and spree killer.”
“What can I say? I’ve got a kid brother that I love to inflict sibling trauma on by telling him all about the horrors of the world,” you said, gulping when you saw your mom round a corner down the hallway. “Oh boy. Prepare yourself.”
“Tom, are you okay, sweetie?” she said, bypassing you and going straight in for hugging him from the other side of the bed. You blinked wildly, watching them embrace. She checked him over, finishing with her hands on his cheeks. “Your parents are out of town?”
“Yes ma’am,” he said quietly.
“Well, you’ll stay with us until they’re back,” she said, standing and giving you a look to kill. “Y/N Y/M/N Y/L/N.”
“Hi?” you squeaked out, her eye twitching. “I would like to remind you that I’m nineteen and you can’t ground me anymore.”
“I would like to remind you that you are a nineteen year old girl and when a psychopath is running around town, you do not go run towards him!”
“In her defense,” said Tom, raising his hand slowly, your mom sighing. “She did save my life…and maybe others…and she was pissed about you almost dying. Technically, she made sure Terry was safe before she went to help me so maybe we settle this at giving your traumatized daughter a hug and we forget the rest?”
“That was so stupid of you,” she said, stepping around the bed and hugging you.
“Didn’t you meet dad when he crashed his car and you pulled him out of a burning vehicle?” you teased.
“Shut up,” she smiled back, breathing deeply. “God, tell me you at least told him you’re in love with him after all that.”
You physically winced, Tom not even bothering to hide his smirk. “Love? You said it was a crush, Y/L/N.”
“Watch yourself, Hanniger,” you mumbled, your mom ruffling your hair. “Why must you torture me so?”
“Deserved after the stunt you pulled. And Thomas…you can do better than Sarah. You can probably do better than Y/N-”
“And Tom needs his rest now, thank you very much,” you said, pushing her away. “Go help people or whatever it is you do.”
“Mhm. Just wait until your father hears about this.” You groaned, Tom’s arm wrapping around your waist as she went back to work.
“She has a point. You shouldn’t have come for me.”
“Don’t you know you’re worth saving?” He stilled, eyes downcast to the end of the bed. “I didn’t think, I just…I knew Harry blamed you and everyone knows about the Valentine’s day party at the mines. I just kicked Mr. Robsen in the nuts and went for it.”
“Why aren’t you scared?” His voice was barely above a whisper. You shook your head.
“I’m terrified. But you need me right now so…I went a little crazy to protect you. I know you have a girlfriend but that doesn’t mean…” You looked away, Tom tucking you into his side.
“Something in me broke when they drove away without me…and then you showing up like…like Ellen Ripley and Sarah Connor all rolled into one badass…you fixed it. I’d be so lost without you. I’d be dead without you. And I have to confess something.”
“What-” He leaned in, pressing his lips to yours. A simple, slow, gentle and sure kiss. A brief moment of light on a very dark night. He nuzzled your noses for a moment, breathing softly.
“I’ve been in love with you for ages. But it felt wrong and tonight…tonight showed me the girl I was actually in love with was the one who would do what a town full of people wouldn’t. You didn’t just save my life. You told the truth. Everyone has hated me the past few weeks and I didn’t do anything wrong,” his voice cracked. “My dad told me to take the blame, that I wouldn’t get in trouble, that the town would go under if people found out he cut the oxygen line to save money and didn’t realize it would buildup the gas overtime and cause the explosion and I just…”
“He’s an awful man for putting that on you. But don’t you worry. I will gladly tell every person in this town who’s fault this really is.”
One Week Later
A knock came at the front door, your parents eyeing it wearily. Terry thankfully was still in the dark about what had transpired last week but you all knew it was only a matter of time. School re-opened next week and you were sure he’d be sleeping on your bedroom floor for the next several months.
You got up to answer, your dad scowling under his breath, right on your heels. He hadn’t been as angry as you feared but he didn’t exactly want you going out at night right now either.
He reached around you, pushing him behind himself as he opened the front door, your head ducking under his arm.
“Hi, Mr. Y/L/N. Is uh, oh hey, Y/N.” Tom shifted awkwardly on the front step. “I uh, wanted to see if you wanted to…you know…go out for dinner at the diner…on a date…with me.”
“I’m a little old for you, Hanniger.” You slapped your dad’s chest, shoving your feet into a pair of boots. “Did I say you could go?”
“Who got you a new job with less travel and more money this morning as the new CEO of Hanniger Mining? Would it make you feel better if I brought my shovel?” you teased. You tried to step past him, feeling a finger curl under your shirt collar, tugging you back. “Dad.”
“Home by ten.” You spun around, deadpanning him. He rolled his eyes. “You got anyone else out there that might want you dead, Hanniger?”
“Not that I know of. I’ll just hide behind your daughter if any come up though,” said Tom with a smirk. Your dad returned it, patting your bottom.
“Go have fun. And call if you’re not coming home tonight, alright?” You snagged your purse from the hook and gave him a kiss on the cheek before you were outside with Tom, your dad sighing heavily. “Be safe!”
“I’ll have her back by ten,” said Tom. Your elbowed him on the walkway down to his truck. “What?”
“No, you will not have me back by ten.” He laughed, opening the door for you. “You think I’m not serious?”
“I think you just want in my pants,” he said with a hum, trying to slide across the hood of his truck and nearly falling in the process. You waited until he got behind the wheel, Tom holding up a finger. “You saw nothing.”
“No. I’m so turned on. Do it again,” you deadpanned, his smile coming back, a sight you’d rarely seen the past week. You reached over and held his hand, Tom brushing the back of yours for a moment. “How are you?”
“I think the therapy is helping,” he said quietly. “Just…don’t tell anyone? I’m kinda embarrassed I’m going every day.”
“I won’t. But I don’t think you should hide it either. Needing help isn’t a bad thing.” He smiled, the truck interior still for a moment. “You good?”
“If we go to the diner, odds are we run into people we know. I don’t want drama on our first date.”
“Well, we can drive over to Little Rock where people don’t know us…or we can go have our date here and I’ll happily talk shit about anyone that says anything. Don’t you know? You’re dating the town rebel now.” He laughed loudly, shaking his head as he pulled onto the road, heading for the center of town. “I’m a baddie. I slapped a cop.”
“Is the chief still calling you asking if you’d consider going to the academy so you can join the force?”
“Every damn day. Told him I had bigger fish to fry.”
“You work at the grocery store,” he laughed.
“You’re unemployed. I’m the bread-winner here,” you laughed. He brought your hand to his lips, nipping it lightly. “You know I only recommended my dad temporarily take over because I think you should be CEO someday.”
“If I never step foot in a mine again, it won’t be too soon. I trust your dad will right the ship but I’m never working there again. I’ll be your trophy husband if you want to go catch bad guys though.”
You rolled your eyes, squeezing his hand when you glanced out the window. “Presumptious of you to think I want to marry you. I don’t even know how good the sex is.”
“You beat a killer half to death with a shovel for me. I think your affections towards me well known, Y/L/N,” he teased. “And the sex? Well…I know you so badly want in my pants-”
“Dick.”
“Yes, you are obsessed with that,” he laughed, earning a soft punch from you. “Let’s just say…I’ve only been with one other girl before and I’m sure there’s room for improvement…but I hope you’ll be the last girl I’m ever with if that makes sense.”
“Tom.”
“Hm?” You scooted over, resting your head on his shoulder as he drove along.
“I’m really glad I saved your ass.”
“Me too. Me freakin’ too.”
A/N: What did you guys think? Did you like this spin on Tom and the events of what happened this time around? Would you ever want to see more Tom Hanniger in the future?
Summary: Twenty-four hours postpartum in the bunker, Dean’s all rough edges and shaking hands, trying to be gentle for you and Luna.
-requested-
Pairing: Dean x Reader
Warnings: None, I guess
Word Count: 4891
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
You had never been more aware of your own bladder in your entire life as you shuffled down the bunker hallway in Dean’s, well no, technically your flannel. Everything between your hips felt… wrong. Stretched and sore, like you’d done a hundred squats and then lost a fistfight with gravity.
The bathroom light was way too bright when you flicked it on. You squinted at yourself in the mirror for half a second: hair in a tangled knot, faint pillow crease still on your cheek and skin pale except for the flush over your nose. You had one of Dean’s old t-shirts on under the flannel, stretched over the soft swell of your still-not-quite-flat stomach.
“Supermodel”, you muttered to your reflection and dropped onto the toilet with a hissed, “Ow”.
Peeing after birth, they said. Magical experience.
While you handled that mess and tried not to overthink the fact that your body had literally pushed a person out less than twenty-four hours ago, you heard the sound. Faint at first, a soft whimper, then a sharper cry, echoing down the hall. Luna.
Your chest tightened. It was ridiculous how fast that little sound lit you up inside, nerves and something warm tangling together. You finished as quickly as your protesting muscles allowed, did the whole careful-wipe-try-not-to-curse routine, then washed your hands, fingers moving fast under the water. Her cries picked up, not frantic yet, but definitely unhappy. “I’m coming, kiddo”, you said under your breath, drying your hands on a towel that had seen better days.
Luna’s cries grew clearer as you turned into the hallway that led to your room. Well, your and Dean’s room. That was still new enough to feel like trying on someone else’s clothes.
You pushed the door open with your shoulder. She lay in the middle of the big bed, in a little nest of blankets Dean had made, tucked into the dip where his body usually rested. One tiny pink face scrunched up, eyes squeezed shut, fists like knots by her ears as she yelled her opinion about being awake.
Your heart did that weird stutter-step it kept doing every time you looked at her. Like it couldn’t quite believe she was real. “Hey, hey”, you murmured, crossing the room. “I was gone for two minutes. Drama queen already, huh?”.
You slid your hands carefully beneath her, mindful of her floppy head like the nurse had shown Dean five times until he’d snapped, “I got it” and then proceeded to handle her like a bomb with a smiley face drawn on it.
Luna was so warm. That was the first thing you always noticed. Warm and impossibly small. Her cries dropped from siren to wounded kitten as you lifted her against your chest, her face smooshing against your shirt. “There you are”, you breathed, swaying a little without thinking. “Didn’t like waking up alone, huh? Yeah. Me neither”. Her tiny fingers flexed against you, catching in the fabric. You could feel her breath, quick little puffs through her nose. There was that newborn smell clinging to her, milk and baby shampoo and something that just meant new.
“I swear I didn’t leave her there alone crying. She was asleep when I went to get food. I’m not neglectful, I’m just… hungry”.
You turned to find Dean standing in the doorway, balancing a plate in one hand and looking only slightly defensive.
“I left her for, like, three minutes”, he said, voice pitched low, eyes darting from you to Luna and back. “I checked, like, twice. She was out. I swear”.
“She’s a Winchester”, you said, shifting Luna so her cheek pressed against your shoulder. “She can sense when someone tries to eat without her present. Survival instinct”.
Dean’s mouth twitched, but his shoulders dropped a little. “Yeah, well, you missed out. I made you a sandwich. Heavy on the good stuff, light on the—”. He broke off, glancing down at the plate, then back up, as if remembering he was supposed to be chill about this. “Sam’s healthy crap. The stuff he tries to sneak in”.
“You took it off, right? Because if there’s kale in there, I’m filing for full custody”.
He grinned, crooked and soft. “All the kale’s in Sam’s sandwich. Yours is pure. Might’ve even put extra bacon on it. For… health”.
You made your way to the bed again, Luna’s little body pressed against you, making snuffles that said she was mostly just mad about being alone. Dean set the plate on the nightstand, eyeing you like you might tip over. “Need a hand?”, he asked quieter now.
You shook your head, shifting to sit on the edge of the mattress. “I got it. Unless you’re volunteering to handle this”, you said, nodding at Luna, who was now working up another cry, tiny mouth searching for something to latch onto.
Dean hovered with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans. “I would, but…”. He shrugged. “Not really equipped. You want the water?”.
You nodded, glancing at the glass he’d left by the bed. He passed it to you, careful not to jostle Luna. His fingers were so warm where they brushed yours. Just like Luna´s body. “Thanks”, you said and tried to sound casual about it, like this was normal. Like this was always going to be normal. Dean Winchester bringing you water, making you sandwiches, being here.
Luna’s face screwed up again, so you cradled her with one arm and awkwardly maneuvered your shirt with the other, grateful that the hospital had made you practice this about twenty times. She latched on quick, hungry and serious about it, like she’d never eaten before in her life. Dean turned away a little, trying not to watch and failing.
You cleared your throat. “You don’t have to look away, you know. You were there for the birth. You saw, like, everything”.
He snorted, but you caught the faint pink creeping up his neck. “Yeah, you almost broke my hand. Still got the marks”. You smirked, holding Luna with one hand, the other massaging your wrist absently. “You should’ve thought of that before knocking me up”.
Dean’s face went soft. He didn’t say anything for a second, just looked at you and Luna, the sarcasm slipping away like it always did when he thought you weren’t looking. For a guy who could walk into a room full of monsters and crack a joke, he sure struggled with emotions that didn’t involve bravado. He cleared his throat, looking down at his feet. “You know… I still can’t believe it. That she’s real. That you’re here”.
You smiled, because you felt the same… like the floor might drop out at any second. You and Dean. An actual relationship, not just a one-night thing that you both pretended didn’t mean anything for months after. Luna, all cheeks and tiny fists, a day old and already bossing you both around. The bunker, never really home until now.
“She’s got your attitude”, you said. “And your appetite. Congratulations”.
Dean looked up, grinning wide, eyes all crinkled at the corners. “Yeah, but she’s got your stubbornness. You try to put her down, she acts like it’s the end of the world”.
“She learned from the best”, you shot back, but it was gentle, affectionate. Your chest felt too full, in that scary, good way.
Dean stayed perched by the bed, hands still buried deep in his pockets like he was afraid they might accidentally do something wrong if he let them loose. Luna’s hungry noises filled the space. The silence stretched, full of things unsaid. Dean fidgeted, eyes flicking from your face to the baby, to the wall, to anywhere but the actual operation you were running on his bed.
You cocked an eyebrow at him. “You know, for a guy who once stitched a knife wound in a moving car, you’re surprisingly squeamish around some boobs”.
He let out a breathy laugh, glancing at you with a sheepish grin. “Yeah, well, usually when boobs are out, it’s for a whole different reason, and there’s a lot less crying involved. Usually”.
You smirked. “Wow. Real mature”.
Dean shrugged, his lips twitching. “You’re the one who picked me, sweetheart. You want mature, you should’ve stuck with Sam”.
You snorted, trying to shift Luna to the other aching boob without completely flashing Dean. You failed. Spectacularly. Your shirt got caught halfway, Luna slid an inch, you overcorrected, and for a solid two seconds you were just… out there. Full National Geographic.
Dean choked on absolutely nothing. “Jesus”, he coughed, whipping his head toward the wall so fast you were surprised it didn’t spin. “Little warning, sweetheart”.
You huffed, getting Luna latched on the other side with a wince. “Relax. You’ve seen them before. Extensively”.
“Yeah, when they weren’t being used for—”, he gestured vaguely, still pointed firmly away from you “—baby fuel”.
You rolled your eyes. “Same hardware, different purpose. Calm down, Winchester”.
He risked a glance back, careful, like you’d explode if he looked straight on. His gaze flicked from your face to Luna, then very deliberately stayed above your collarbone.
Eventually, you shifted, wincing as you eased Luna off your breast. She made a sleepy noise of protest, mouth working on air, then slumped against you, milk-drunk and limp. You adjusted your shirt one-handed, the other arm wrapped around her little body, already moving to settle her higher on your shoulder when Dean’s hand shot out halfway, then paused in midair.
“I can—uh”. He cleared his throat, eyes flicking from Luna to you and back. “I can take her. If you want. Y’know. Burp her. Or… whatever the technical term is”.
You blinked at him. He looked ridiculous and kind of adorable. Big, tough hunter suddenly nervous about asking to hold his own kid. And under that, something else, sharper: the way his shoulders squared a little with Sam standing there, like he wanted it very clear whose job this was now.
“Technical term is ‘burp,’ Einstein”, you said. “But sure. Be my guest”. You leaned forward carefully, passing Luna over. Dean’s hands were there instantly, bigger than they had any right to be, palms steady even if you could see the faint tremor in his fingers. He gathered her against his chest with a care you’d never seen him use on anything that wasn’t a weapon or the Impala.
“Okay”, he said, mostly to himself. “So I just… pat her? Or is it more of a… tap thing?”.
Your mouth twitched. “Do you want me to—”.
“I got it”, Dean cut in, a little too quick. His jaw clenched, shoulders squaring. “I can burp my own kid. I know how gravity works”.
You bit back a grin. “He’s trying to impress you”, you stage-whispered to Luna. “Prove he’s not just a pretty face and questionable life choices”.
Dean ignored you, focused entirely on Luna. He started with the gentlest little tap on her back, like he was afraid she might crumble.
“Dean”, you said. “She’s not made of glass. You pat me harder when I steal your fries”.
“She’s tiny”, he argued, eyes darting down. “I’m not gonna… I dunno. Knock something loose”.
You watched his face soften as he found a rhythm. Firmer pats, slow rubs in between. His whole body swayed instinctively, that unconscious rock you’d already caught him doing every time she was in his arms. Luna scrunched her nose against his shoulder, hands twitching, then relaxed again. One of her feet kicked out, sock brushing his wrist.
“Hey there, peanut”, he murmured, voice dropping into that soft register he only used with her. “C’mon. Work with me here. Give Dad a little something. Don’t make me look bad in front of your mom”. You huffed under your breath and Dean kept patting, just on the edge of anxious, mouth pressed into a line. “She’s supposed to burp, right?”, he asked after a second, glancing at you. “They said if she doesn’t, I’m not, like, killing her with air or something?”.
You smiled, the exhaustion sitting warm behind your eyes now instead of cold. “Relax. She’ll get there. She just likes to keep you sweating”.
“Yeah, that tracks”, he muttered, looking back at her. “Takes after her mom”.
You smirked and just then Luna let out a tiny, surprisingly loud belch, right against Dean’s shoulder. Dean’s face lit up like someone had turned on a switch inside him. “Did you hear that?”, he demanded, looking like he’d just won a trophy. “You hear that? That was me”.
You laughed outright. “Congrats. You successfully helped a six-pound human expel gas”.
Dean beamed anyway, absolutely unbothered. “Fuck yeah I did”. He turned his head, pressing his cheek very gently against the top of Luna’s head. “That’s my girl. Look at you, showing off”.
You swallowed around the stupid lump in your throat. “Careful”, you said. “Keep talking like that and she’s gonna expect applause every time she farts”.
“Fine by me”, Dean said. “I’ll buy her a damn marching band if she wants one”. He kept grinning down at his daughter.
“Hey, Dean?”, you murmured.
“Yeah?”.
“You look good like that”, you said. “You know. All… dad”.
He glanced at you, a slow, almost shy smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah?”.
“Yeah”, you said. “Kinda hot, actually”.
The grin turned wicked for half a second before he caught himself, eyes dropping pointedly to Luna. “Careful, sweetheart. I’m holding the kid”.
You laughed, tired and full and a little wrecked in the best way. “Relax. Overachiever. You already proved your point”. He huffed a soft laugh, then leaned down and, very carefully, pressed his lips to the top of Luna’s head.
-
One week later, the bunker felt almost like a real home, or as close as it ever would. You could walk without wincing, the mesh underwear was gone and you’d started to believe you might survive this whole parenthood thing, especially with Dean at your side.
Dean had gone from nervous rookie to absolute baby whisperer in record time. He could change a diaper one-handed, soothe Luna with a song (badly off-key, but she didn’t seem to mind), and he’d even figured out how to heat a bottle without setting off the fire alarm. You had no idea where he’d picked up half of it. Maybe it was all instinct, or maybe all those years of keeping Sam alive had finally paid off.
Tonight, the bunker was blessedly quiet. Sam was out running “errands”. It was probably an excuse to give you and Dean space. Luna was finally asleep in her little bassinet next to the bed, bundled up like a glow worm, her tiny fist curled beside her cheek.
You lay on your side facing her for a long moment, just… watching. Her lips twitched in her sleep, like she was arguing with someone in a dream. It still blew your mind that she existed at all, let alone here, in this ridiculous underground library with two emotionally stunted hunters for parents.
The mattress dipped behind you, springs creaking softly. Dean’s familiar weight slid in, the faint smell of whiskey and whatever body wash he’d bought last time wafting over you. He pressed in close, chest to your back, arm snaking around your waist without hesitation, palm spreading over your stomach like it had every right to be there.
“You staring at her again?”, he murmured against your nape, breath warm. “You know she’s not gonna do any tricks, right?”.
You smiled with your eyes still on Luna. “She’s very busy being adorable. It’s a full-time job”.
You felt his chuckle rumble against your spine. “Yeah, well… guess she gets that from her dad”.
You snorted. “Bold”.
He hummed, then his lips brushed the side of your neck. Just a soft, testing touch. You went still for a heartbeat, then melted, your hand coming up to curl around his forearm where it banded across your middle.
“You okay?”, he asked quietly, nose nudging behind your ear. “We can just sleep. Or pretend to. I know you’re still… healing and all that”.
You rolled over slowly to face him, knees bumping under the blanket. His hair was still damp from the shower, sticking up in soft spikes, freckles dusting his nose in a way you tried not to stare at.
“I’m okay”, you said. “And I don’t want to sleep yet”.
One corner of his mouth tugged up. “No?”.
You shook your head. “No. I want you to kiss me like I’m your girlfriend, not just the chick whose name is on the birth certificate next to yours”.
Something flickered in his eyes. Hurt, guilt, determination all tangled together. He reached up, fingers brushing your cheekbone. “You are my girlfriend”, he said steady. “Been trying to show you that for a week now without… pushing”. His thumb skimmed your lower lip. “But if you’re asking…”.
You didn’t get the rest, because he leaned in and kissed you.
It wasn’t the frantic, half-desperate way he’d kissed you that night months ago, when everything between you had finally snapped. This was slower. Careful. Like he was taking his time proving you’d done the right thing picking him.
His mouth moved against yours, warm and sure, his hand sliding back into your hair, cradling your head. You sighed into him, your fingers fisting in the fabric of his t-shirt, tugging him closer until your chest was flush with his.
He shifted, bracing himself on his elbow so he didn’t crush you, thumb stroking the curve of your jaw. Every time he pulled back, he only went far enough to breathe your air, to steal another look at you before dipping back in, kisses trailing softer, then deeper, then soft again.
You lost track of how long you spent like that. The only clock in the room was Luna’s little huffing baby breaths and the way Dean’s thumb traced lazy circles against your cheek, over and over, like he had to remind himself you were really there.
Eventually, his hand slid down to your waist, fingers splayed wide and steady. He didn’t press and didn’t pull, he just held you as you let yourself sink into the safe, warm weight of him.
You nipped at his bottom lip, just to hear that little sound he always made in the back of his throat, and Dean smiled into your mouth, tugging you closer. His nose bumped yours. “Careful”, he murmured, his voice low and teasing. “Keep that up and I’ll forget all about taking it slow”.
You grinned, catching your breath, your forehead pressed to his. “Promises, promises”.
He laughed, softer than you’d ever heard, eyes so open it made your chest ache. He brushed a strand of hair back from your face, taking his time. “You really have no idea how crazy you make me, do you?”.
Your grin widened as you felt the solid press of him against your hip. Dean didn’t pull away, didn’t even try to hide it, just looked at you like he was seeing the best kind of trouble coming his way. You shifted just enough to make sure he knew you felt it too. His breath caught quiet but unmistakable.
“Oh, I have some idea”, you murmured, the words coming out breathy.
His eyes darkened, that slow, hungry look you’d seen a hundred times in a hundred crappy motel rooms. But it was softer now. Less take what you can get before the world ends, more I can’t believe I get to have this.
“Yeah?”, he rasped. “What gave it away?”.
You shifted your leg deliberately, brushing your thigh along the length of him again. His jaw clenched, eyes fluttering half-shut.
“Wild guess”, you said, fighting a smug little smile. “You’re kind of… obvious”.
He huffed a shaky laugh. “Not my fault my girlfriend’s making out with me like I’m not on strict doctor-ordered ‘hands off the goods’ probation”.
You snorted. “Pretty sure the doctor didn’t say no kissing”.
“Yeah, well, she also didn’t see you in my bed”, he muttered, thumb stroking your hip through the thin fabric of your sleep shorts. “Different level of difficulty”.
You slid your hand up under his shirt, palm flattening against his stomach, feeling the muscles jump under your touch. “Big bad Winchester can’t handle a little PG-13 action?”.
He gave you a look. “Sweetheart, there’s nothing PG about the things I’m thinking right now”.
Heat crawled up your neck, settling somewhere low and heavy. “Yeah?”.
“Yeah”, he said, voice rough, forehead tipping against yours. “But I’m not gonna screw this up by rushing you. So I’m gonna be a gentleman and just… suffer”.
You grinned, heart twisting painfully around how earnest he was about it. “Your self-control is kinda hot, actually”.
He barked out a quiet laugh and you just laughed with him, then tugged him back down by the collar, kissing him again. Deeper this time, a little messier, your tongue brushing his. His hand tightened on your hip, pulling you closer until there was no space between you at all.
You rolled your hips, just once, slow and unhurried, but there was no mistaking the way he sucked in a breath against your mouth.
“Careful”, he warned again, but it came out more like a plea than anything else.
“What?”, you whispered, lips ghosting over his. “Thought you were being a gentleman”.
“I am. I’m just not a saint”.
His fingers slid up your side, stopping just under your ribs, warm through the thin cotton of your shirt. He didn’t go higher, didn’t push his luck, just held you there, steady, like he was memorizing every inch of you all over again. He dipped his head, lips trailing slow, deliberate kisses along your jaw, then under your ear, one of those sweet spots that always made your breath catch. You closed your eyes, letting yourself melt into the careful press of his mouth, the steady anchor of his hand on your waist.
“God, you smell good”, he mumbled, lips brushing the hinge of your jaw. “Missed this. Missed you”.
You smiled, tilting your head to give him more room. “You’ve had me all week, Winchester”.
“Not like this”. His voice was rough and so full of want it nearly undid you.
You slid your fingers through his hair, tugging him back up for another kiss, just as his hips pressed more firmly against you. Everything about him was warm and hungry and reverent, a careful balancing act between wanting you and wanting to do right by you. It made you ache in the best way. He kissed the corner of your mouth, then your jaw again, lingering there, breathing you in.
And that was when Luna let out a noise so loud and wet it sounded like someone had stepped on a ketchup packet.
Dean froze. You froze. Your lips were barely a breath apart, both of you blinking at each other as the sound echoed in the quiet room, followed by a small, satisfied grunt from the bassinet.
You tried to keep a straight face, but failed miserably. Laughter bubbled up and you pressed your fist to your mouth, eyes watering.
Dean’s eyes went wide. “No way”, he whispered, completely scandalized. “That did not just come out of her”.
You shook with silent laughter, the whole bed trembling beneath you. Dean was still frozen, pressed against you, utterly aghast. He looked back and forth between you and the bassinet, mouth working soundlessly.
You wiped a tear from your cheek. “I mean, you have to respect the comedic timing. She gets it from you”.
Dean let out a long, suffering groan and dropped his forehead to your collarbone. “Unbelievable". He pressed a quick, desperate kiss to your throat, then sighed, the heat of him now a little less insistent against your hip. You could feel the way his body shifted, arousal draining away as reality set in.
“That was a perfectly good hard-on. Gone. Murdered in its prime”, he muttered.
You grinned, sliding your hand down his back teasingly, fingers dipping just beneath the waistband of his boxers. “Don’t worry, Winchester. You make more”.
He huffed, mouth quirked, but still dramatically put-upon. “Yeah, but that one was special. We were getting somewhere. I had momentum. There were plans”.
You pressed a soft, almost chaste kiss to his cheek. “Your stamina’s legendary. Besides, aren’t you supposed to be good under pressure?”.
He shot you a look, incredulous but not unamused. “I’ve hunted shapeshifters in a meat locker with a broken toe. I can handle pressure. But that…”. He jerked his chin toward the bassinet. “That’s just cruel”.
You bit your lip, eyes twinkling. “If you hurry, maybe I’ll let you try again after you survive Diapergeddon”.
He gave you the most tragic puppy-dog eyes he could muster. “You promise?”.
You reached up, thumb tracing his lower lip. “Promise. But only if you don’t puke”.
He groaned again, but this time he pushed himself up, grabbing a clean diaper and wipes from the nightstand. “You know, I used to have a reputation, sweetheart. Now I get cockblocked by a six-pound poop machine”.
You couldn’t help it, you burst out laughing again, shaking your head as Dean stalked across the room with the air of a man heading for the gallows. He leaned over the bassinet, steeling himself, muttering a steady stream of complaints.
“Okay, Luna, let’s see what fresh hell you’ve cooked up… Oh, God”. He gagged, actually gagged, while peeling back the diaper, making you laugh so hard your sides hurt. “How is this even possible? This should be illegal”.
You caught your breath long enough to call, “You’re doing great, babe! Real hero’s work!”.
Dean shot you a look over his shoulder, eyes squinting. “You just want to see if I’ll faint”.
You grinned, propping yourself up on your elbows. “Not if you finish before round two, I don’t”.
He shook his head, lips twitching, fighting a smile even as he gagged again. “Unbelievable”, he grumbled, but you could hear the affection, the love, the utterly resigned joy of being right here, right now.
You watched Dean as he worked through the disaster Luna had so proudly delivered. He muttered curses under his breath, nothing too creative, just the kind of exasperated grumbling that said he’d lost to a worthy adversary. But his hands were gentle. He wiped her down, humming a nonsense tune, the same one he’d started singing to her during late-night diaper changes, part Zeppelin, part “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”.
Luna kicked, her tiny legs churning, face scrunching with the beginnings of a wail. Dean didn’t even flinch, just leaned in closer, pressing his lips to her round, soft belly.
“Hey, hey, none of that”, he soothed. “You’re okay, kiddo. Just a little cleanup, then you can go back to dreaming about… whatever babies dream about. Milk, probably. Or new ways to sabotage me”. She blinked up at him, lip quivering. He reached for her fist, wrapping his big fingers gently around it. “I know. Tough life, huh? Born into the weirdest family in North America”.
He finished the diaper change, then scooped Luna up into his arms. She snuggled in against his chest, her head tucked under his chin, her little fingers curling into the collar of his shirt. Dean sat down on the edge of the bed, holding her close, swaying just slightly. You could see the way his body relaxed the moment she settled in.
“See?”, he said, voice rumbling against her. “Much better. You got me wrapped, you know that? Totally whipped, and you’re not even out of diapers yet”. Luna blinked up at him, and Dean smiled, soft and small, just for her.
You saw something shift in him, something you’d always hoped he’d find. A sense of being enough, of being wanted, not for what he could do, but just for being himself.
He stroked her back, still swaying, his head bowed over her. “You and your mom… best damn thing that ever happened to me”, he said quietly, as if he was sharing a secret with her and no one else.
You watched from the bed, your heart aching in the gentlest, happiest way. Dean Winchester, holding his daughter like she was both treasure and miracle, humming off-key and whispering his love into the soft hair at her crown. No monsters, no darkness, just this. His world, in his arms.
Pure fluff! Dean being a absolute gentleman and not getting mad at you for stealing his last slice of pie on valentines day 🥰
I know it's been a while since I've written anything, just had a lot to deal with, but hopefully I can upload and finish most of my drafts soon ☺️❤️🫶🏻
The bunker was too quiet for Valentine’s Day.
Not that anyone officially celebrated it down here — hunters and heart-shaped nonsense didn’t exactly mix — but still, the silence felt heavier tonight. Like even the pipes were judging.
Y/N sat at the small table in the kitchen, wrapped in one of Sam’s old flannels, phone face-down beside her, a fork in one hand and Dean’s very specifically labeled leftover pie in the other.
Apple. Cinnamon-heavy. Still perfect cold.
Her date was officially a no-show.
Two hours of waiting at a diner like an idiot, pretending to scroll, pretending not to notice the pity looks from the waitress. The apologetic free coffee hadn’t helped. The drive back to the bunker had felt longer than any hunt.
Now it was just her… and the last slice of pie she absolutely knew she wasn’t supposed to touch.
“I’m sorry,” she sniffed to the plate. “You deserved better too.”
The bunker door clanked open in the distance.
Boots. Heavy. Familiar.
Dean.
Y/N froze mid-bite, eyes wide — then immediately took another bite because if she was getting caught, she was getting caught committed.
His footsteps echoed down the hall, slower than usual. No humming, no classic rock soundtrack, no swagger. Just tired leather and disappointment.
He appeared in the doorway a moment later, jacket slung over his shoulder, hair a little mussed, expression set somewhere between annoyed and worn-out.
“Bar was a bust,” he muttered to the room — then stopped.
His eyes went to the plate.
Then to the empty pie tin on the counter.
Then back to the plate.
“…That my pie?”
Y/N’s eyes filled instantly. Of course now the tears came back. Not at the diner. Not on the walk home. No — here. With contraband dessert in her hand.
“I got stood up,” she blurted, voice wobbling. “And it was the last slice and I know it had your name on it but everything is terrible and I didn’t want to be alone and the pie didn’t judge me—”
Her voice cracked completely and she tried to hide it with another bite.
Dean stared.
This was not the reaction he’d planned for.
He’d imagined mild outrage. A lecture. Maybe a dramatic speech about bunker food law.
Instead — she looked wrecked. Cheeks flushed, eyes glassy, trying not to sob into flaky crust.
His irritation evaporated so fast it was almost embarrassing.
“Hey,” he said softly.
That alone made her cry harder.
“Oh come on,” he sighed, setting his jacket down and walking in. “Don’t do that. You’re gonna make me feel like a jerk and I didn’t even say anything yet.”
“You were thinking it loudly,” she sniffed.
“Yeah, well, my brain’s a loud place.”
He pulled out the chair across from her and sat. Close enough to see the tear tracks. Close enough to smell the cinnamon.
“Guy stood you up?”
She nodded.
“Idiot.”
“He said he ‘forgot,’” she said, doing air quotes with the fork. “Who forgets a date?”
Dean huffed. “Someone with the personality of a damp napkin.”
A broken laugh slipped out of her.
There it is, he thought. Worth it.
He reached across the table and, without asking, slid the plate a little closer to her.
“Finish it.”
Her eyes lifted. “It’s yours.”
“Was,” he corrected. “Now it’s medicinal pie.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“Today it is.”
She hesitated. “You sure?”
Dean leaned back. “I struck out tonight too. Figured I’d find someone, didn’t happen. Guess the universe decided we’re both losers.”
She gave him a look.
“Okay,” he amended, “you’re a tragic romantic heroine and I’m the loser.”
“Better.”
She took another bite — slower this time.
Dean watched her for a moment, jaw working slightly. He hated that someone had made her cry. Hated it more than he should. It sat wrong in his chest, like unfinished business.
“You know,” he said casually, “for the record — if I had a date with you, I wouldn’t forget.”
The fork paused halfway to her mouth.
He immediately pretended intense interest in a crack in the table.
“Dean…”
He shrugged, too quick. “Just saying.”
“You hate Valentine’s Day.”
“Yeah.”
“You think romance movies are ‘psychological warfare.’”
“Accurate.”
“And you call flowers ‘plant confetti.’”
“Still accurate.”
She smiled through the last of her tears. “So what exactly would this unforgettable date include?”
Dean thought for half a second.
“Burger run. Bad horror movie. You stealing my fries. Me pretending I don’t like it.”
“That does sound suspiciously specific.”
“Hypothetical,” he said, pointing at her with mock seriousness. “Legal distinction.”
She laughed again — properly this time — and the sound hit him square in the ribs.
Worth the lost pie. Worth ten pies.
She finished the last bite and pushed the empty plate away, calmer now.
“Thanks for not being mad.”
Dean stood, took the plate, and bumped her shoulder gently with his fist. “You cry, you get pie immunity. It’s in the rules.”
“Hunter handbook?”
“Page one.”
She watched him rinse the plate, comfortable silence settling in.
“Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“…I’m glad you came back unsuccessful.”
He glanced over his shoulder, eyebrow raised. “Wow. Harsh.”
She smiled softly. “You know what I mean.”
Yeah. He did.
His answering smile was small, real, and just a little bit vulnerable.
“Next Valentine’s,” he said, turning off the tap, “we skip the idiots and the bars.”
Summary: A lazy night in the Dean Cave leads to you entertaining Dean with what you think your Hallmark movie would be about.
Warnings/Tags: fluff, totally just friends...
Masterlist
This type of evening was your absolute favorite. Curled up in your spot on the couch in the Dean Cave with your soft blanket, Dean on the other side nursing a beer, your crochet project keeping your hands busy and a cheesy B-horror movie playing on the screen.
“Since when did you become a grandma?” He teases.
“As long as I’m a GILF, I’m okay with it.” You shrug.
Dean chuckles softly as he takes a long drag from the bottle in his hand. His eyes now transfixed on you while your fingers work deftly, pulling and hooking the yarn into an intricate square design. Your face free of makeup, hair in a wild bun atop your head, and an oversized tee cut to let your shoulder peek through. It feels like the first time he’s noticed just how effortlessly beautiful you are.
Per the usual, your feet slip out of the blanket to tuck under his legs for warmth. He doesn’t remember when you started doing that, only that he’s never stopped you and he waits for it now. He likes knowing you look to him for comfort.
“What?”
His reverie is broken by the sound of your voice, and he realizes you’ve caught him staring. Heat flushes his face and his ears tinge pink.
“Oh.. I was just thinking this looks like a real Hallmark movie moment.” As he gestures between you, causing you to chuckle. Your eyes light up with a hint of mischief as your eyes narrow at him.
Using your best sultry voiceover tone, you start in.
“You, a hunter. Me, the owner of a pie shop you can’t resist. As we begin to fall for each other over crumb toppings and fruit fillings, I beg you to hang up your colt and live out your days with me. But you can’t…” You fling your head back on the couch and drape your arm over your face like a fainting damsel. “Your overwhelming sense of duty and love of the open road holding you back. What would Baby think?!?!”
Dean can’t help the laughter leaving him as he watches your dramatic telling of your fake romance. He loves how animated and silly you get.
“Until one day, you see another man in your seat in the bakery chatting me up. Eating a slice of pie that you knew in your heart should have been yours and yours alone. Later, you burst into my apartment over the bakery to find me crocheting my 100th blanket of the night.”
“100th?!” Dean asks incredulously.
“Baby blankets, obviously, for the babies at the hospital. I’m a saint.” Dean snorts as you launch back into your story.
“You give an impassioned speech about how mine is the only pie that will ever satisfy your hunger before you take me in your arms to dip me into a fiery kiss.” You close your eyes and hug yourself making a ridiculous kissy face and noises to match. Dean is nearly in tears at this point.
“Not long after, you trade sigils for screwdrivers and open a classic car repair shop next door to the bakery. Obviously, they’re connected so I can walk over, barefoot and pregnant, to bring you a pie for lunch every day.”
“Barefoot, huh? Wouldn’t that be some type of health code violation?”
“Don’t bring logic into a Hallmark movie, De. It kills the magic.” You teasingly scold before returning to your project.
Dean turns back to the horror movie. But his thoughts linger on the image of you, barefoot and pregnant, bringing him pie. He’s surprised at the warmth that blooms over his chest, unsure and unwilling to dwell on what that might mean.
Summary: You offer Dean comfort after a rough hunt.
Warnings/Tags: comfort, dash of pining, undressing.
Masterlist
Your phone buzzes on the table, you pick it up to see a text from Sam:
Hunts over. Heads up, it was a rough one and Dean is taking it hard. He might need space when we get back. ETA 2 hours.
You were relieved the boys were alive and almost home but concerned about your friend beating himself up. If self-deprecation was an Olympic sport, he’d take the gold. No words seemed to bring him out of his spiral in those moments, so you decided to prep the bunker for maximum comfort.
Dean’s mini-fridge in his room stocked with his favorite beer. An emergency freezer ready-to-bake cherry pie thrown in the oven. Fresh towels set out in the bathroom. Lastly, you drove out to pickup dinner so it’d be ready when they arrived. By the time you heard Baby pull into the garage, the bunker was filled with the aroma of burgers and pie.
As soon as you laid eyes on Dean, your heart dropped. He had a swollen black eye, a deep cut on his forehead that disappeared into his hairline, and he was slightly favoring his right side. Without making eye contact, he offered a small nod before trudging off to his room. Sam followed in shortly after.
“We got the monster, but not before it took another victim. He’s blaming himself. Just don’t take it personal if he shuts us out for a while.”
“That’s awful, Sam. I’m so sorry.” You took a moment to process, thinking of that poor family and what they’re going through. “How are you holding up?”
“As well as I can. These types of hunts are always hard.”
“You guys can’t blame yourselves though, without you the monsters would still be out there hurting people.”
“I know, but it doesn’t make it any easier, and that’s not how Dean sees it.” You nod. “I’m going to take a shower, and probably just eat in my room if that’s okay? I’m beat and just want to crash.”
“Absolutely. Go ahead, I’ll bring your food to your room.”
Sam steps forward and gives you a one armed hug. “Thanks, y/n. You’re the best.”
After dropping off Sam’s food, you grab Dean’s and head towards his room. The door is closed, but the soft glow emanating from below into the hall suggests he’s still awake.
Your knuckles rap lightly twice on his door. “Hey De, can I come in?”
A moment later the door cracks open and you see his retreating figure sink down onto the bed. “I brought you a burger and a slice of pie. I’ll leave it on the desk.”
You hear him mutter “thanks” while his gaze remains on the floor, taking a slow sip of whiskey. You’ve never seen him look so battle-worn and defeated. His eyes are hollow, body tensed, and the exhaustion is seeping from his pores. You pick up the first aid kit from his desk and cautiously approach as if you might spook him, settling beside him on the bed.
“I’m fine.”
“Please?” You whisper.
After a beat, a resigned nod is his only reply.
He barely winces when you gently dab the head wound with alcohol. It might need a stitch, but you opt for butterfly closures to keep the fuss to a minimum for his sake. Closing up the kit you look at him again and he’s frozen in place, consumed by his thoughts. You crouch back down in front of him and softly take one of his hands. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.” You gently pull and he follows you wordlessly to the bathroom, still warm with steam from Sam’s earlier shower.
Dean stands in front of the stall, looking at you as if waiting on instructions. Hesitantly, you reach for his mud caked jacket and slowly start to pull it from his frame. It drops with a damp, heavy thud onto the floor. Moving on to unbuttoning his flannel, your heart rate starts to rise. You’ve seen glimpses of Dean in a towel after a shower before, but this is a first. You’ve never removed his clothes or touched his body like this. It’s not sexual, but intimate in a way that’s never been shared between you.
Dean isn’t objecting, so you continue knowing he needs to get clean. Not just to remove the blood and grime, but to cleanse himself of this day. Once the flannel is gone and only his t-shirt remains on his torso, you bend down to unlace and remove his boots and socks. You find his eyes as you stand and your fingers reach for his belt buckle, silently asking permission to continue. He glances at you just long enough to offer another small nod, then his stare goes back to the floor. You gently work the leather through the buckle, and pull the belt from around his waist. The only sound besides both of your breathing being the soft clink as the metal meets tile.
You hope he doesn’t register the tremble of your hands as you undo the button of his jeans, your knuckles inadvertently brushing the hot skin of his lower abdomen. The sound of his zipper cuts through the quiet of the bathroom and masks the deep breath you take to calm your nerves. You grab his jeans from the outside of his legs and gently pull them down for him to step out.
You meet his gaze again while grabbing the bottom hem of his shirt and giving a small tug. He raises his arms and allows you to pull it up over his head. It’s then you register the smattering of purple bruises along his ribs. You do your best to keep your face neutral, not wanting Dean to start worrying about you when you’re trying to take care of him. When he’s left only in his black boxer briefs, you turn the shower on and get the temperature just right. “It’s ready.”
You go to pick up his dirty clothes to throw them into the wash, figuring you can get the boxers later when he’s finished. But before you can grab the clothes you feel his calloused hand wrap lightly around your wrist, his pleading eyes freezing you in place.
“Stay. Please.” The deep timbre of his voice with how softly he says it causes an ache to bloom in your chest.
You whisper a small “okay,” not wanting to disrupt the tender bubble of the moment. Grabbing the hem of your tank top, you pull it over your head and bend down to remove your sweatpants and fuzzy socks, leaving you in your sports bra and panties. Holding Dean's hand, you guide him into the water, positioning him under the spray. Small streams thread down his face and body carrying blood and dirt to circle the drain. You grab the shampoo and start to gently massage his scalp, careful of the cut. His eyes close and his jaw relaxes as he takes a deep, shuddering breath. Your arms raise up and around his shoulders to reach the hair on the back of his head. You try to not focus on the fact that your breasts are lightly pressed to his chest and your face just inches from his.
After rinsing his hair, you take his arms to switch places so you can wash his body. Starting at the top of his toned shoulders, you massage the suds in to release the tension there. Next you work your hands softly at his neck and jaw, his scruff rough under your fingertips. You use your thumbs to stroke his cheeks, nose and forehead. With his eyes closed, you take a moment to study the planes of his face. Dean Winchester is truly a stunning man, but what makes him so special to you is his beautiful soul. It breaks your heart that he gives so much of himself to others but doesn’t deem himself worthy of the same compassion.
You then alternate between his arms, rubbing circles into his biceps with your palms and using your fingers to slide down his strong forearms and hands. The soothing smell of his warm and bright body wash fills your nostrils - notes of sandalwood and citrus wafting from the steam.
As you rub more soap between your palms you see that Dean is now looking at you. His expression soft, but broken. His hands come up to gently rest on your hips, his grip light but grounding. Your gaze shifts to his chest as you make wide circles over his pecs, under his arms, down his sides and over his abdomen, stopping where the v of his hips meets the waistband of his boxers.
You kneel down on the cold tile in front of him and begin to work the same circles down his thick upper legs where his boxers end, and down over his calves. Trying hard to think about anything but how close you are to his groin, only a thin layer of soaked fabric between your face and his manhood.
He offers you a hand to stand up, and you use that hand to place him facing forward under the spray while you start to massage the nape of his neck from behind. You can’t help but appreciate his broad shoulders and the musculature of his back. His body built on years of hunting, his freckles and scars only adding to the beautiful tapestry that is Dean. Shaking off the intrusive thoughts, you apply more pressure to his shoulder muscles releasing deep knots of tension. Dean's head drops forward with an involuntary groan, and he brings his hands to the tile in front of him for balance.
Continuing your way down, you work on his shoulder blades, pressing your thumbs under and around the tight bands of muscle as best you can. The sound of a deep breath escapes Deans lips as you feel him melt under your touch. Your thumbs make small, tight circles in the arch of his lower back, ending again just above the waistband of his boxers. You can’t help but notice how firm and perky his ass is before admonishing yourself for objectifying him right now. Your hands ghost over his hips before whispering, “I’ll let you finish up and grab some towels.” Exiting the shower to dry yourself and give him privacy.
Keeping your back to the stall, you hear the water shut off as you hold a towel out behind you for him to take. When he steps beside you and you can see the towel is wrapped low around his waist, you take his wrist and guide him back to his room.
“Please try to eat something before bed if you can,” giving his bicep a gentle squeeze before turning around to head towards your room.
“Y/n.”
It was so quiet you’re not sure if he actually spoke. You turn to see his arm slightly raised towards you, his fingers reaching as if to touch you. You see the question in his eyes, knowing it won’t be spoken aloud.
“I just need to grab some clean clothes from my room-"
“Could borrow mine,” he adds quickly.
You offer a small smile and slip past him into his room. Dean passes a fresh pair of boxer briefs and a t-shirt to you, turning yourself around to dress and give him space to do the same. Removing your wet bra, you slide into the shirt that is soft with wear and carries his smell. The hem hits at your mid-thigh, so you slip off the wet panties before stepping into his underwear. Another deeply intimate boundary being crossed tonight but again trying not to think too hard about it. ‘You’re comforting your good friend, it doesn’t mean anything beyond that’ you remind yourself.
The cold sheets bring a shiver and a wave of goosebumps. You prop up on an elbow and pull back his side before giving it a welcoming pat. While he’s still somber, you’re pleased to see his shoulders have dropped and the furrow between his brow is gone. He climbs in next to you making the mattress groan as it dips under his weight. He keeps a few inches between you, settling on his back and staring at the ceiling.
‘This won’t do’ you think to yourself before reaching for his far shoulder to turn him towards you and intertwine your legs. His arm wraps around your waist, flattening his palm to your back. The heat from his body draws you in, melting away the chill of the bed. You give him a comforting smile and brush your fingers along his temple, causing his eyes to close and a breath he’d been holding to release. Noticing a slight tremble to his body, you lean forward and press a soft, lingering kiss to his forehead before tucking his head under your chin. “I’m here. You’re not alone, Dean. Never alone.”
The air settles into a sense of calm, and you drift asleep to the sound of his breath and he to the sound of your heart.
Summary: You both were bid to obey: for king and country, heart or duty. A familiar story, and a cruel verse. In the turn of one season, you would be wed to serve your royal house, but not to the man who guarded your heart.
AN: Oh, I'm excited about this one! Requested by the lovely Liane - @chevroletdean - over on Patreon, this is of course a Royal AU. ⚔️ 💖 It's loosely based on my love for The Princess Bride and The Lord of the Rings — and I rewatched both while I was writing this!
Series Tags & Warnings: (18+) Royal/Medieval AU, friends to lovers, protective Dean, arranged marriage, smut, fantasy elements
Canon characters featured: Sam and Dean, John and Mary, Castiel, Benny (as "Ben/Benjamin"), Alastair, Jack, Gabriel, and Bobby Singer (as "Father Robert")
♬.ᐟ Listen while you read:
᯽ Classic: Lord of the Rings Ambience: “Aragorn & Arwen”
🜲 Nostalgic: “Storybook Love” by Mark Knopfler (from The Princess Bride)
⟡ Modern: “imagine” by Ben Platt
Chapters:
᯽ Part 1 - Omens in the Afternoon
᯽ Part 2 - Shades of Weary Night
᯽ Part 3 - A Sudden Dawn
᯽ Epilogue - Resolutions in the Morning
⟡ Series complete! ⟡
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Summary: Dean notices you haven’t been eating and refuses to let you struggle alone.
-requested-
Pairing: Dean x Reader
Warnings: EATING DISORDER
Word Count: 2773
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
You’d been staring at the same line in the book for so long the black ink had started to blur into a gray smudge. Your stomach twisted in a small and hollow ache. You pressed your elbow tighter to your midsection and hunched over the table, pretending you were just really into the paragraph about cursed objects.
“You planning on marrying that book or actually reading it?”. Dean’s voice floated in from the hall, warm and lazy with amusement. A second later, he walked into the library with two mugs of coffee in one hand and something wrapped in a napkin in the other.
You straightened automatically like you’d been caught doing something you shouldn’t. “It’s very demanding”, you said, tapping the open page. “Terrible communicator”.
He huffed a laugh before setting the mugs down. The smell of coffee drifted up. He nudged one toward you with two fingers, then set the napkin-wrapped thing near your elbow.
“Made you a sandwich”, he said, casual, like it was nothing. “Well. ‘Made’ is a strong word. Assembled. But it’s got at least three food groups, so I’m calling it a win”.
You glanced at the sandwich. Turkey, cheese and what looked like an enthusiastic amount of mustard on slightly squished bread. Your stomach clenched again, this time in a different way. The idea of chewing through it made your throat feel tight.
“I’m okay”, you said quickly, pushing the sandwich back an inch. “Had something earlier”.
Dean paused. It was small, barely a beat, but you’d started to get good at noticing those. Three weeks of dating a man who’d built his entire personality on deflection and bravado meant learning to read the microscopic glitches in the performance.
“Yeah?”, he asked while leaning a hip against the table. “What’d you have?”.
You forced a shrug. “Uh…couple crackers. And that granola bar. I’m not that hungry”.
His brows twitched just slightly. “So…dust”, he said. His tone stayed light, but his eyes didn’t move from your face. “You’ve been picking at air all week, sweetheart”.
You wrapped your hands around the coffee mug instead of replying. If you kept your eyes on it, you didn’t have to meet his.
“It’s fine”, you said, taking a sip you didn’t really want. “I’m just not—whatever. I’m good”.
Dean watched you for another second, then sighed under his breath and rapped his knuckles twice on the table.
“Eat at least half. Humor me”, he said. “Then you can go back to your romance novel about cursed armor over there”.
You opened your mouth, already reaching for some excuse, some “later” or “I will” that would get you out of it. But your tongue felt heavy and the thought of dragging this out, of him looking at you like that, made you tired down to your bones.
“Later”, you muttered instead. “Promise”.
“Mm”. He didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push. He leaned down and brushed his lips against the top of your head in a quick, soft kiss that still made heat crawl up your neck, because this was still new, still weird and unbelievable that Dean did that to you. “Don’t make me break out the dad voice”.
“You already have a dad voice”, you said, trying to slip back into banter. “It’s just mostly used on Sam”.
“Nah”. He straightened, smirking. “Sam’s too tall for my dad voice now. Bounced right off him years ago”.
You smiled for him, because you knew he wanted you to, and because it was easier than explaining the heavy, sluggish feeling sitting on your chest like a weight.
He squeezed your shoulder, then headed back out, muttering something about changing the oil in the Impala. The moment he disappeared down the hallway, the bunker felt wider, emptier. Your smile drained away. You stared at the sandwich.
Your brain did the math without your permission. Two snacks yesterday. Some chips and half a protein bar the day before. The weird, foggy float you’d been carrying around like an aura for days. You knew it wasn’t great, knew what any rational person would say about it, but rational had been…far. Everything had felt far lately. Food. Sleep. The future. Yourself.
You nudged the sandwich a little farther away, just out of the reach. Then you bent over the book again and forced your eyes to track each line, one by one.
By the time the letters started swimming seriously, you told yourself you were just tired. You’d been at it for hours; Sam had come and gone, checking on his laptop and muttering about some hunter three states over. You’d nodded along, swallowed a couple sips of water when he encouraged you and pretended your head wasn’t buzzing.
When you finally pushed back your chair, your legs felt hollow, like you’d borrowed them from a mannequin. “Okay”, you mumbled to yourself, gathering the loose sheets you’d scribbled on. “You can go get…something. Pretend to be a human for five minutes”.
Standing up was a mistake. The world tilted, just a fraction, like the bunker had shifted on its foundation. You grabbed the edge of the table. The pages in your hand crinkled.
“Whoa”. You tried to laugh under your breath. “Okay. Easy”.
The laugh sounded wrong in your own ears, thin and distant. A high-pitched whine started somewhere behind your left temple and growing louder with each heartbeat. The library lights overhead flared too bright, halos around them expanding.
You took a step. Your foot didn’t land where you expected it to. The floor seemed to move toward you instead of away.
“Hey, you seen—”. His sentence cut off mid-word.
Your hand slipped off the table. The folder slid from your fingers in slow motion, papers fanning in the air. The room folded in on itself, dark creeping in at the edges of your vision.
“Y/N?”.
His voice punched through the rising static, sharp and scared in a way you’d never heard from him, not when facing down monsters, not even when he was bleeding. Then nothing.
-
You came back to the feeling of big, calloused fingers tapping lightly at your cheek.
“C’mon. C’mon, sweetheart, open those pretty eyes for me”.
The words filtered in like sound underwater. Something cool pressed against your forehead, and your nose filled with the smell of motor oil and coffee and the faintest trace of his soap.
You sucked in a breath and coughed. Your tongue was thick and your mouth dry. The bunker ceiling swam into focus above you, replaced a second later by Dean’s face as he leaned over you. Green eyes, wide and frantic. His mouth a tight line, jaw working.
“There you are”, he muttered, exhaling hard. “Jesus”.
You blinked. It took a second to realize you weren’t on the library floor anymore. The mattress under your back was familiar. The bed in Dean’s room. There was a damp washcloth lying halfway down your neck.
“What…?”. Your voice came out rough. “What happened?”.
Dean barked a disbelieving laugh. It didn’t reach his eyes. “What happened is you scared the ever-loving crap outta me, that’s what”. He sat back just enough that you could see he was perched on the edge of the bed, one knee angled toward you, one hand still wrapped around your wrist like he was afraid you might disappear. “You passed out. Went down like a sack of bricks”.
You remembered. Humiliation rushed in a half-second later, hot and prickling.
“Oh”. You swallowed. “Sorry. I’m fine now. Just got up too fast”.
Dean’s grip on your wrist tightened. “Yeah, that’s not gonna fly”, he said quietly.
You finally met his gaze. He looked…different. Not angry exactly, but there was a sharpness there, a seriousness under the usual sarcasm.
“How long was I—?”.
“Couple minutes. Long enough”. His eyes flicked over your face like he was checking you for cracks. “You hit the floor. Lucky I was right there or you would’ve smacked your head on the table. Sam’s still doing a sweep for your dignity in the library”.
Despite everything, a breathless huff of amusement slipped out of you. He seized it, like he always did, using humor as a pressure valve.
“Funny”, you muttered.
“Yeah, I got jokes”. He paused. “Got some questions, too”.
You tried to sit up. The room didn’t spin this time, but your head still felt floaty, like it was attached by a loose string. Dean was immediately there, sliding an arm behind your back, guiding you gently against the headboard. He adjusted the pillow behind you with careful movements.
“There”. He grabbed a cup filled with water from the nightstand and held it out.
You obeyed, mostly because your hands shook when you reached for the cup, and he noticed, covering your fingers with his without comment.
When you handed the cup back, Dean set it aside and turned fully toward you, his knee brushing your leg. “Okay”, he said. “Talk to me”.
“There’s nothing to—”.
“Don’t”. The word came out sharper than anything else he’d said, though his voice dropped immediately after. “Do not tell me ‘it’s nothing’ after I just watched you faceplant in the library like a cartoon character”.
You flinched. He noticed that, too. Some of the hardness slid out of his expression, leaving something more raw.
“Hey”. He exhaled. “I’m not mad at you, alright? I’m…worried. There’s a difference”.
Your chest tightened. You looked down at your hands in your lap, fingers twisting together. His thumb brushed over the inside of your wrist.
“You been eating?”, he asked.
There it was.
The instinct to lie rose immediately, quick and smooth. Just nod, say “yeah”, make it about low blood sugar or sleep or anything else. The lie sat on your tongue.
Your silence answered him for you.
“Thought so”, he said, after a moment. He sat back a little, scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’ve been watching you push food around your plate for a week. I’m not blind, you know”.
“It’s not—”. You swallowed. The words felt like jagged glass. “It’s not like I’m doing it on purpose”.
“I know”. He turned his head toward you again. The edge was gone now, replaced by something quieter. “But not meaning to doesn’t make it less dangerous”.
You let your head fall back against the headboard. “I just…haven’t been hungry”, you said, finally. Your voice sounded small, even to you. “Everything’s been…heavy. And food feels like this…big thing. Like a job. So I just…don’t. And then it’s the end of the day, and I figure it’s too late anyway”.
Dean stayed quiet for a while. Long enough that you started counting your breaths in the space between his silence, half-expecting him to get up and leave the room. Not out of cruelty, that wasn’t him, but because this wasn’t a language he was fluent in.
He’d always known how to patch up bleeding wounds. Bandages, whiskey, a dirty rag tied around a bicep. He knew what to do when the monster was visible.
But this, what you were saying now, wasn’t something you could kill with rock salt or bullets.
“Okay”, he said finally. The word came out slow and careful. “I gotta be real honest with you, sweetheart…I don’t totally get that”. You looked over at him. He didn’t look away. “I mean, I hear you. I believe you. I just…”. He blew out a breath. “I’ve never had that. The not-eating thing. For me, food’s always been the one constant, y’know? World goes to hell, I still want a damn burger. I get sad? I eat. I get pissed? I eat. I kill a wendigo and nearly die in the woods? You better believe I’m stopping for pie on the way home”.
You let out a tiny breath of a laugh, despite yourself. His mouth curved, just a little, at the sound.
“But what you’re talkin’ about”, he went on, “that kind of heavy…where it gets so thick in your head that even something like makin’ a sandwich feels like climbing a mountain? That’s a whole different beast. I don’t pretend to know how that feels. Not really”.
He scratched the back of his neck, glancing away like the words were costing him more than he liked admitting.
“I mean, hell”, he added. “Half the time I deal with my own crap by punching a wall or bottling it up till it explodes in someone’s face. So if you’re waitin’ on a well-adjusted dude with a psychology degree, uh…bad news, sweetheart”.
“I’m not”, you said quietly. “I’m not waiting on anything”.
He looked at you again. And this time, something softened in his eyes. Something unsure. Unsteady in a way that Dean Winchester didn’t let most people see.
“I just…”, he said, then stopped and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t wanna screw this up”.
The words hit you in a different place. Deep and low. Because even after the weeks together, the late-night talks, the sleepy mornings, the way his hand always found yours under the table, you hadn’t expected that.
He rubbed at his jaw, eyes locked on the far wall. “You’re my girl”, he said quieter now. “First one I’ve really had since—”. He cut himself off. Didn’t say Lisa, because he didn’t have to. “And this…this isn’t a one-night thing. Not to me. So if you’re struggling, I wanna be the guy that knows how to help. That shows up the right way. But this? Watching you…not eat, then hit the floor like that?”. He shook his head, his voice rougher. “I felt useless”.
You reached over, your fingers brushing lightly against his. He didn’t move, just let you touch him.
“You weren’t”, you said. “You aren’t. You got me off the floor. You brought me here. You stayed”.
“Yeah, well. Where the hell else would I go?”.
He turned his hand over and curled his fingers between yours.
There was a long beat of silence. Not awkward. Just…full. Tense in a way that meant something was still sitting between you, unsaid.
“You don’t have to fix it”, you said. “I don’t need you to be perfect. I just…need you not to walk away”.
Dean shifted closer without letting go of your hand. His other arm slid behind you, pulling you gently into his side. You went willingly, tucking against him with your head beneath his chin.
“I can do that”, he said. “I’m not goin’ anywhere”.
His heartbeat was steady under your cheek. You listened to it, let it ground you in a body that still felt like it didn’t fully belong to you today. Dean’s arms tightened around you, protective but not too tight. Like he was holding you together without needing to squeeze the pieces back into place.
“You’re not a burden”, he murmured. “And I don’t need you to be alright every second. I just want you to let me in when it gets like this. Don’t carry it alone”.
You didn’t trust your voice, so you just nodded against his chest.
“Tomorrow,” he said after a while, “we’ll make a plan. Easy stuff. One real meal. Something small. I’ll make it, or Sam will, or hell, we’ll door-dash a diner if that helps. Doesn’t have to be pretty. Just has to happen”.
“You sure you’re up for all that?”, you murmured.
“You kidding?”. His mouth brushed your hairline, voice soft and steady. “I’d move mountains for you. A sandwich is the easy part”.
You stayed like that for a long while. You weren´t fixed. And nothing was finished. But right now, you were okay.
Maybe not everything needed to be fixed right away. Maybe being held by someone who stayed, even when they didn’t have the right words, was enough for now.
And Dean…he just needed to be here. And he was. That was enough. For now.
✦Read on a03! - Masterlist - Dean Masterlist✦
✦summary: Dean is known for never forming attachments. Never doing more than a night, never leading on, just loving and leaving. It's better like that. Safer. But for you, he can't stop himself from coming back every time.✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, kind of friends with benefits to lovers, angst, pining, Dean Winchester needs to talk about his feelings and get a hug, fluff, love confessions, light smut, light jealousy, no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: I've wanted to do a fic like this for such a long time please enjoy it thank you✦
You always open the door.
Dean’s told you not to. He has these stupid code-words and questions you’re supposed to ask—riddles with strange answers like how do angels take their coffee, they don’t they prefer liquor, and does the king of hell like Tuesdays, yes, unless it’s his mother’s birthday—to make sure that it’s really him. Every time you open the door without asking them, he sighs and gives you a heavy look, refusing to cross the threshold until you play his little game.
“You gotta ask-“
“But I know it’s you-“
“Could not be me. Could be something wearing my face, sweetheart, we’ve talked about this-“
“I know we have.” You cross your arms over your chest. “And I told you. I know it’s you.”
Dean makes a face, like he wants to smile. He’s trying to fight it, to keep the upper hand in the argument, but he always caves. You smile at him, and hold a hand out.
“I could be a shifter.” He grunts, crossing his arms like he doesn’t trust himself not to take your hand. “Could be possessed. You been keepin’ the holy water like I-“
You toss it on his face, and giggle the way he barely even flinches.
Dean wipes his face, eyes shining on yours, and you know you’ve won.
Again.
For a game he insists you play, he’s quite bad at winning.
“Alright,” he smirks, slowly advancing through the door. “You’re gonna get it.”
You back away, smiling widely the whole time, and squeal as he chases you into your tiny apartment. There’s not much space for you to run—there’s barely enough space for Dean to fit—but you make do. He kicks the door closed and you retreat into the cluttered living room. You try to jump over the couch, but he catches you around the waist and you both fall into the cushion. When you wiggle a little for the show of it, Dean groans and hold you tighter against his chest.
He noses at your neck, kissing the soft skin under your jaw, and you keep giggling.
His presence does that to you. Makes you feel airy and foolish, the thrill of the coming days already buzzing over your skin, the joy in his return making you dizzy.
Because you’re never sure he’s going to return.
He’s told you that one day, he might not. That if that happens, you’re not allowed to look for him. If you’re lucky, he’ll just be dead.
“That’s lucky?” You’d asked, and he’d chuckled.
You’d been lying on his bare chest, his fingers mindlessly tracing your arm. You know about what he gets up to, when he’s not here. Know about the longer shadows in the world, know why the fifth time he was here—when you both realized that maybe this wasn’t the no-strings thing he’d claimed it had to be—he spent the whole weekend quizzing you about monsters and installing security in your apartment. You have a strange circle on the ceiling of every room that your friends call an interesting decoration choice. There’s dead man’s blood in your freezer, holy water in a flask near the door, and an iron poker in your living room, no fireplace to pair with it.
And you ask questions. So many questions. Dean says you’re worse than his brother sometimes, and you just kiss his nose because if he really found you annoying, he wouldn’t answer or bother to come back.
That night, you’d been asking about the worst thing he’d fought. He’d paused, then said God’s sister, and forbade you from asking follow-ups.
You’d ignored him. He couldn’t just say God’s sister then keep talking like that wasn’t fucking insane. It had only taken about two minutes to push him into saying the whole story. But when he’d finished, a long shadow had crossed his face. He’d held you a little closer, and given you the order to not look. You’d asked, because you always did.
And he’d entertained you, because he always does.
“Worse things than death, sweetheart.”
“Like what.”
“Y’know. Things.”
You’d given him a flat look. “Dean.”
He’d just smiled back, drawling your name, and you’d lowered yourself down over his face. Hovered an inch away, scanning over his smug, handsome face with narrowed eyes.
“Is there like, a Death two that you’re not telling me about?”
He’d snorted, running his hand through your hair. “Death two?”
You’d nodded, and he’d smiled up at you fondly.
“Nah. No death two.”
“Then what-“
“It’s- Nothin’ you wanna know about, baby, I promise-“
“Has it happened to you before?”
Dean had fallen silent. He’d let out a heavy breath, scanning over your face, and you’d dropped your brow over his.
“Please?” You’d whispered, and back then—almost a year ago, now—you still hadn’t understood why it was so important to know everything about him that you could.
You’d both been playing another one of his games. The one where he reminds you that this means nothing, and you act like that doesn’t split your soul in half. The one where Dean says that shit, then spends the whole weekend worshipping your body and treating it like it means everything, slowly stitching you back together. Then he leaves, and you promise him you won’t wait, and you both pretend to believe that you mean it.
You always wait. You always take everything he gives you. Collect every little fact and story and scar, and keep them in a special valve in your heart. A reserve, for the time that he’s gone. It acts as a fuel, keeping your love for him burning and alive, each little bit feeding into the others until you’re less spending the pieces like currency, and more adding water to the flow of a river. It sustains itself. It only grows and grows, sacred and gentle.
And you’re not sure if Dean feels the exact same. But he keeps coming back. He plays your games, letting you ask all your questions and collect your stories.
Dean had rubbed his mouth, looking at you like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, and caved.
“There was this thing.” He’d said slowly, watching you so cautiously as he spoke. “Little while before we met. Whole shit with demons and Amara-“
“God’s sister.” You jump in quickly, because you want him to know you pay attention.
He’d smiled softly. “Yeah. Her. Well, she’d been shoved in a cage, and I was wearing the lock, and- It didn’t do good things to me. It messes with your head, makes you… Angry. Angry and violent. Turned Lucifer into the devil, made Cain kill his brother, made me… Something.” He’d swallowed, eyes dropping to your chest. “Got me killed. But it doesn’t let you just die. It brings you back. Makes you a demon.”
“And… Did you-“
“Yeah.”
“Oh.”
He’d nodded, trying to smile, but it hadn’t reached his eyes. You’d climbed a little further over his body, and just hugged him tight.
The tension had eased from his chest, as he hugged you back. When you’d looked up, there was something shining on his face that you hadn’t named as tears, but still wiped away gently.
Dean had caught your hand, giving you a desperate, almost pleading look.
“You gotta promise.” He’d rasped. “If I walk out and don’t come back, you move on. ‘Cause if that shit happens again, and you find me- It ain’t me that you’d be finding, sweetheart.”
“Okay.” You’d whispered. “Promise.”
It had soothed him. He’d nodded, relaxed into the mattress, and pulled you down into a long kiss.
And there are some things you don’t ask about. That you don’t really want to know. The kind of thing the Mark turned him into, what hell was like, the specifics of those nightmares he gets, where he wakes up with his limbs flailing and a wild, almost inhuman glint in his eyes.
He doesn’t seem to believe you, when you tell him that you like him how he is. He lets out that sad, huffing laugh and mutters you don’t know me, baby, and you just roll your eyes, and remind him that you do.
You really do.
You know Dean so well, for a stranger who’d been drowning in a bottle of whiskey at the bar downtown, and offered you the night of your life. Who’d said one time, then showed up on your door a month later. Then two months after that. Then three weeks, then another three, the one month again.
Dean says he lies for a living. That it’s a big part of his job, and he’s pretty damn good at it.
So either he’s a lot worse at his job than he’s led you believe, or he’s just really bad at lying to you.
Because he reminds you that he might not come back, every single time he goes. Reminds you that this—waving a hand between your bodies, backing up a whole step like he’s trying to remind himself—is still just fun. That’s it.
You nod, and let him do his little dance and show.
Then, like always, you end up like this. Tangled in his arms on the couch, his mouth tracing over your skin. Sucking small bruises where the last ones had faded. Slipping his hand under your shirt and rubbing, re-mapping your body, grinning whenever he traces a spot he knows is sensitive, proud of himself like he hasn’t done this a million times before.
“Missed you,” he whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth.
You twist, pressing your lips fully over his. He melts over you, cradling your face, wrapping an arm fully around your stomach. You smile against his mouth, opening when he swipes his tongue over your lips, humming happily as his hand splays possessively over your stomach.
“Missed you too.” You whisper back, and he makes a deep, almost purring sound from his chest.
You end up rolled over under him. He kisses you into the cushions, pulling off his flannel and almost ripping your shirt away, before letting his mouth wander down your body. You run your fingers through his hair—it’s gotten longer than you know he likes, you’ll cut it later—and moan as his mouth finds your nipple.
“Dean…”
“Missed you so fuckin’ much.” He mutters to himself, squeezing your hips and using his knee to nudge your thighs apart. “My pretty girl. Still fuckin’ wet for me, still fuckin’ perfect.”
You beam, and if you ask him about it later, he’ll say it’s just dirty talk. You’re not really his girl. You’re just fun.
But you’re not stupid. You mostly keep playing this game because it’s Dean’s, and it’s important to him, and you love him.
That was the first thing he told you not to do. There’s a long, long list of orders you’ve received from Dean—don’t open the door, don’t look for me, don’t pray to anyone but this specific angel, don’t mess with the safety measures—but this was at the top of the list.
“Don’t fall in love with me, sweetheart.” He’d said that first night. It had been teasing. You’d laughed, because he was just a handsome man at a bar. You weren’t there because you were looking to fall in love either.
“I’ll try.” You’d said back, and he’d smiled.
You really had tried.
The joke had turned into a warning. One that he gave over and over, after that visit where he started monster-proofing your place. You’d kept smiling, and telling him you’d try.
Every time he’d walked out the door, you’d reminded yourself that he might not come back. Every time he had come back, you’d repeated to yourself over and over—in the shower, sleeping next to him in ed, watching TV with his head in your lap—that you can’t fall in love with him.
He might never come back. He’ll never be able to love you back in a way that matters. He’ll never be able to give you a real life. He’s almost twice your age, he sleeps with a gun, he’s legally dead and a former FBI most wanted member, he’s been dead and tangled with demons and you still have to sit on the floor for twenty minutes to convince yourself to talk to your insurance company.
Dean’s a hero.
The hero doesn’t end up with the girl who’s barely ever left her village.
So you’d really tried. For your sake, you’d tried.
But he does this thing.
He leaves himself everywhere in your life. Hickeys on your neck that take a week to fade, a flannel he forgot on your bedroom floor, socks in the bathroom and half-eaten pie in the fridge. You downloaded songs he likes on your phone, because you spent a whole afternoon trying to convince each other to like your music. He made you a paper airplane that sits on the highest place of honor, the top of your fridge.
Once, after a long weekend where he’d fucked you on every surface of your apartment then lay on the floor counting fake stars with you until two in the morning, he’d tried to draw you.
He’d been drunk. You’d been laughing and moving the whole time, and for a man with such a steady hand, he’s not the best artist.
Your nose had been too small. Your lips had been too wide, and your hair had looked like pasta and your eyes had been crossed and he’d forgotten to give you ears. He’d groaned, and crumpled it up before crawling across the floor to lie in your lap.
“I don’t think of you like that.” He’d grumbled, nose grazing your inner thigh, and you’d laughed.
“I know, De.”
“You’re prettier, guess I just can’t draw.”
“No. You really can’t.” You’d leaned down, and kissed the top of his head. “I liked it anyway.”
He’d smiled—small, but for Dean that was practically beaming—and the tips of his ears had turned red as he hugged you tighter. A few drinks later, he’d passed out in your arms. You’d tried to draw him. Sketched with the pencil and paper left of the coffee table, then given up because his beauty didn’t seem willing to be captured in the paper.
So you’d taken a photo of him. Snorting below you, his cheeks smushed and mouth hanging open. Still unreasonably handsome.
In that single moment, all yours.
You’d smiled to yourself, and fallen asleep just that. With Dean all around you, hidden from the world on the floor of your apartment. He’d left in the morning. You’d kissed him, and made that same promise not to wait for him to come back.
But it had hit you, after a week of taking out your phone every few hours, and staring at the photo until your eyes were blurred with tears.
You always wait for him to return. You miss him so horribly when he leaves, it’s like part of you goes with him, and you’re just praying he’ll bring it back so you can feel alive again. So you can smile, and not worry about work politics or the asshole who lives down the hall and hits on you or friends who are always busy.
When Dean’s here, he’s the best thing in the world.
When he’s gone, he’s the best thing in the world, and the only thing you’re not allowed to have.
You’re not allowed to have him when he’s here either, though.
When he kisses you, or makes you breakfast, or pretends to watch TV while just staring at you the whole time. It’s a game you play alone.
Dean is yours, but you’re still not allowed to have him.
It’s not a fair game. You’re his, and he has you. You sit around waiting for him when he leaves, and pull him in every time he returns. There’s no amount of time that could pass, where you wouldn’t keep waiting for Dean, and it’s a rotten, torturous game.
He did warn you not to play it. He told you there was no winning.
But you keep playing. As hard a game as it is to lose, it’s a more fun game to play.
It’s easy to love Dean. So easy, you don’t know why you faked playing his game in the first place. He stopped warning you not to fall in love with him a while ago, but he seems to have his own game, where he lies to himself about you one day moving on without him.
“I got anyone to be worried about?” He asks at night, his arm tossed over your body, pinning you to the mattress.
You hum, playing with his fingers. “No.”
“No? Not even the- What’s his name, Hank?”
“Hank?”
“The asshole from your book club-“
“He’s not an asshole, De. He’s a nice man, and you know his name is Frank.”
“Hm.” Dean grunts, his hand closing over yours. “So not even Frank, huh?”
You sigh, twisting to look at him in the dark. Taking a deep breath, and scanning over his far too neutral expression. You wish he wouldn’t torture himself like this. You know it’s his game, but he doesn’t have to play it. He could just let you love him, even if it meant you spend the rest of your life staring at the door.
But he’s committed. He gives you a tight smile, and squeezes your hand.
“If he’s… Nice.” The words sound like they pain him. “And you like him. Y’know, you deserve the world, sweetheart-“
“Frank doesn’t have the world.”
Dean jaw twitches. “He could have it,” he mutters. “If he wants.”
His words are low. Low enough you’re pretty sure you’re not supposed to hear.
And you reach out, cradling Dean’s jaw in your hands. He slumps into you with a sigh, dragging you a little closer. Holding you against his chest, face pressing into your hair, voice strained.
“You should. If you like him-“
“I do. He’s nice.” You swallow, leaning back to hold Dean’s hooded gaze. “But I like him Dean. Not like like. He’s nice.”
Dean’s mouth twitches. “You said that already.”
“I mean it.”
“Uh huh.” He pauses. “I’m not nice.”
“Yes, you are.”
He laughs dryly. “Sweetheart, I got a grenade launcher in my trunk-“
“You got two grenade launchers in your trunk.” You press your knee up between his legs, and he hisses, rutting up against your thigh.
“Fuckin’- Woman-“
You giggle as he rolls you fully on your back, pinning your arms to the bed and looking down at you with a shine in his eyes. You smile freely up at him, because it’s so easy. Dean said don’t fall in love with me like it was a joke, but it’s the easiest thing you’ve ever done in your life.
He crashes down, kissing you deep and fervently, until your laughter is replaced by soft moans, and your legs are spread in invitation on the bed. Dean pulls up, licking his lips, and stares at you with something close to awe.
You just keep smiling at him. It always seems to make him soften within a few moments.
And it does. Like clockwork, Dean shakes his head, sighs, and leans down to kiss you a little more gently.
“You’re gonna kill me one day,” he murmurs against your lips, letting go of one hand so he can cradle your neck, and you drag your fingers over his chest with a hum.
“I’m not worried about it.” You whisper. “You’d come back to me.”
He nods.
The tiniest nod. You don’t think he even knows he does it. There, all the same.
And you know. Neither of you are going to win your games.
But you’re both still so bad at playing them.
“Do you like like me?” Dean asks an hour or so later, when your legs are shaking and little Dean is twitching against your thigh from being slightly overworked—though he never complains.
“Do I like like you?”
“Uh- Yeah?”
You laugh. Force yourself to roll over, and crawl forwards to your rightful place on Dean’s chest.
“C’mon, it’s not that dumb a question-“
“It is a little.”
“Well, if you don’t like like Frank-“
“I don’t sleep with Frank.” I don’t wait for Frank like the Earth waiting to get back to the Sun. “I sleep with you.”
“Eh.” He smirks, squeezing your ass. “Not a lotta sleepin’ going on- Shit-“
You squeeze his still softening dick, and he moans, rutting into your hand. You almost giggle again, but it falls into a gasp when he sits up suddenly—keeping you against his chest but flipping you around so your head drops on his shoulders and your ass pressed on his cock—and drags his hand between your thighs.
“You’re good at helpin’ me win arguments, baby.” He drawls in your ear, and you whine.
”Dean-“
“Mouthy girl.” He drags his mouth over your throat, and you shake in his arms. “You know what you do me, sweetheart. Not real fair to tease, when you know I’m barely keeping up.”
You try to squirm, to get just a little bit of friction, and Dean lands a firm slap on your pussy. Your whole body jolts, nails sinking into his arm, and he chuckles.
“I know, I know.” He’s cooing, taunting, and it only makes you ache for him more. “I’ll give you anything you want, baby. Just gotta say please.”
You nod, and manage to babble out the words. You didn’t know you were capable of having so many orgasms, until you met Dean. You know he’s the only one who can do this. Reduce you to a drooling, cockdrunk mess, and still have you crawling back on your knees for more.
It would be nice, if that’s all he does to you.
But he also makes you feel wanted. Desired. Loved, even if he never says the word allowed. Even if the idea is all but forbidden.
But you still wait for him at the edge of the mattress, while he brushes his teeth. Shifting restlessly until he comes out of the bathroom, and smiles at you.
Dean crosses the room, and takes your face between his hands. Stares at you for a moment—always fondly, always like he’s not sure you’re real—then leans down to kiss you. Slow, like you have all the time in world.
Like he won’t be gone in the morning.
“I like like you.” You whisper, still a secret with no one else around to hear it.
Dean smiles. Squeezes his hold on the back of your neck.
“Thank you, baby.”
You nod, curling your fingers on the fabric of his shirt. If you get him to take it off, you’ll be able to hide it before he goes in the morning, and you can wear it until it stops smelling like him.
It might not even take tricking him. He’d just let you have it, if you asked. You know he doesn’t want to go either, but he has to. And he’s going to tell you again, not to wait for him. And you’re going to agree, and you’re both going to know it’s a lie.
He’ll walk out the door. Look back once, before forcing himself down the hall.
You’ll watch until he’s out of sight. Run to the window, to wave at him as he pulls out of the parking lot. Watch until the Impala is out of sight, too.
The world with get a little duller. A little more painful.
And then you’ll count down every second, until you see him again.
Dean had been a goner the first time he saw Her.
He remembers the moment clearly. How the world had slowed and he’d been sure he’d just been drinking too much, because he’d seen a lot of beautiful women but this one set off a bomb in his brain, wiping out everything but just the sight of Her. He remembers how She’d come up to him, and started talking with this voice that might’ve been made of every good song in the world. How She’d talked damn circles around him, and how She’d been young enough he felt a little like a perv, but then She’d said her name and it became the only thing he’d ever have to know again.
Dean remembers thanking Sammy for getting annoyed at Dean mark-induced anger, and telling him to go out and do something safe and productive. Thanking the Mark, for agreeing in the moment that drinking was a good thing to do. Thanking the vamp nest that had settled on the edge of the town, for bringing him here in the first place.
Remembers how She’d smiled in the light of the bar, how he’d tried to buy her a drink and she’d teased him about trying to get in Her pants, how they hadn’t even fully made it to the car before he’d been rubbing over Her underwear, and had barely been on the road for five minutes before She’d been taking him in her mouth.
But mostly, Dean remembers waking up the next morning, and feeling something dangerous blooming in his chest.
Peace.
He’d reached over the mattress, traced his thumb over Her cheek as she slept, and he’d felt like the world was more than just blood and loss and another day to get through that turned into a night to survive. The Mark hadn’t been burning in his blood and demanding more, more, more. He’d just been in this soft bed, with a pretty woman he’d spent the night giving good things to, watching the morning light shine over Her face.
Dean hadn’t wanted to get up. He hadn’t been able to make himself, because every time he shifted, She’d make this sad little sound and it echoed in his damn chest.
So he’d just stayed, until he could explain that he had to go. She was so perfect, She at least deserved to think he wasn’t running out after taking advantage of her.
But then he’d looked Her in the eyes, and asked if she wanted to get breakfast. And She’d smiled—it had too quickly became the sun for him, the center of everything, what moved him and offered him every bit of life—and he’d been more than gone.
He and Sammy had cleared out the vamp nest. She’d gotten caught in the middle, Dean had gotten Her out—the Mark roaring louder than usual, and Dean not bothering to resist it at all—and he’d cleaned Her up after. Stayed an extra day to make sure She was on her feet.
Not for any selfish reasons. Like wanting to cling to the strange peace for a little longer. Like taking advantage of Her clearly growing attachment to him, and letting himself indulge the sweetest thing he’d. ever found before he ripped it out of his hands.
He’d explained everything, in the desperate hope that She’d help him leave. That She’d do what Cassie and Lisa had done, and told him they wanted nothing to do with that life.
But She’d just… Understood. Gotten all pouty and sad-eyed, when he’d dragged himself out the door. Smiled at him, and waved goodbye.
And Dean didn’t count himself a good man. He had blood on his hands and a lot of wounds that didn’t seem to bother to heal. Hell, back then he’d been bearing the damn Mark of Cain, been made of all his worse thoughts and urges. But he’d always thought he’d made up for it by not being a douchebag. Maybe he had a body count so large he lost track, and maybe he lied and tricked and fought dirty, but he respected food workers. He tipped. He never touched a lady unless She wanted it, and he never judged—most of—the shit he heard.
He also kept upfront about what he wanted. He’d given Her the usual speech, before they’d started stumbling out of the bar laughing like teenagers.
One night.
He could give Her everything she ever wanted, for one night.
She’d agreed. He’d made his don’t fall in love joke, but it had sounded flat to his ears.
Dean thinks he might’ve known, even then.
He certainly knows now.
“You remember what you said to me?” He asked last time, sitting at Her feet while she did something with string and his favorite flannel that made it look new again. “That first night?”
“What I said to you?” She’d frowned. “No? Am I supposed to?”
“Nah. Just wonderin’.” He’d turned his cheek, pressing it into Her knee.
She looked almost delicate, in this kind of light. Like a mist that was going to blow away with the wrong wind. A dream Dean might forget if he dared to wake up, a trick of the light that would vanish if he blinked. He could’ve been happy there for the rest of his damn life. At Her feet, watching her softer hands work, right where he could keep Her safe and adored for the rest of his sorry life.
She’d paused Her work on his flannel. Smiled down at him, running Her fingers through his hair. Dean had felt like a damn dog, and turned into the touch.
“What did I say?” She’d asked softly, and he should’ve guessed She would. She likes to know everything.
He still doesn’t understand, how She can know him and still open the door every time.
“Was it stupid?” She asked softly, and Dean had chuckled. She couldn’t be stupid if She tried.
“Nah.”
“Well, what-“
“You told me I had big shoulders.”
She’d stared at him for a second. Does that thing he loves, where She sorta blinks and gapes and flushes, like just a few words from his dumb mouth are capable of short-circuiting Her quick brain.
Dean had leaned up and cupped Her jaw to close her mouth. She’d swatted his hands away with a scowl, and he’d laughed.
“Fuck off, I did not say that-“
“Swear you did.” He’d kissed the back of Her hand, because it makes him feel more like a gentleman than the ass who just shows up and crashes in Her bed. “You just sat down and started objectifying me, was pretty freakin’ rude-“
“Shut up.” She’d said with a smile. “You love being my object.”
Dean had chuckled and pushed up into a kiss.
She had no damn idea.
And when She finally shoved him gently away, reminding Dean that She had to finish Her work on his flannel, he’d gone back to watching at Her feet. She stitched that thing up like it had never been worn in the first place. Even gotten those complex seams that used to make him declare a shirt as good as dead. Gave him new buttons, too. Like he deserved something so small and important.
Dean had wondered, as he watched Her. Wondered if he should start ripping up flannels, so he had a better excuse to come back. If maybe She’d like a life in the bunker, stitching flannels and talking to him forever, and if She’d ever forgive him for daring to think something so selfish.
He’d wondered if She knew. That She stitches him up like that flannel, every time She let him back into her arms.
And if Dean were a stronger, worse man, he’d just let himself take Her. Sweep Her fully of her feet with the love confession he’s been rehearsing in the shower and on longer drives, for damn near two years. The one that goes I can’t offer you money. Or a real house. Or healthcare, or children, or even really damn pets. I can’t promise you I’ll come home, every time I walk out the house, and I can’t promise there ain’t always gonna be a target on your back just for holding my hand.
But I can promise I’ll protect you. And love you. And take care of you until someone shoots off my hands, cause even if they shoot off my head I’m gonna figure out how to keep my body working to take care of you.
In his imagination, She’d make a face and whisper like a chicken?
And Dean would laugh, and smile at Her because he remembered how to, when She was around.
Yeah. A chicken, sweetheart. I’ll be your chicken. And I’ll damn try, all the time, to come back. I’ll try to give you everything you want that I got, and if I don’t got it, I’ll figure out a way to make it.
Please.
His confession always ended with please, because even in Dean’s fantasies he can’t work out a world where She says yes.
There are moments, where She looks at him for a long enough moment that the words work their way to his mouth. The sit on the tip of his tongue like a sour candy he needs to spit out. He almost says it, then chokes it back down.
There are a lot of moments, where he almost tells Her.
Sometimes it’s only nights like these, that stop him.
He had a nightmare again. It’s a reoccurring one, now.
She gets hurt. It started more abstract, but it’s narrowed down to one, horrible scenario.
Dean wakes up in Her apartment, and she’s gone. He calls Her name, tears the place up, tears the town up, and She’s still nowhere to be found.
Then he turns, and She’s there. And the world feels peaceful again. He runs towards Her, reaching to pull her back into his arms.
And She dies.
Dean touched Her, and she just… dies.
He woke up in a cold sweat, fighting the pillows and reaching for his gun. It took him a minute to realize it wasn’t real. Another three to calm down, after he looked at Her side of the bed and realized she wasn’t there.
Because he was in his room. At the bunker.
The place he’d worked so hard to keep Her away from.
But now he’s just lying here. Staring at the ceiling and holding the sheets on Her side of the bed. Trying to close his eyes, but it’s damn impossible when he does and just sees her lifeless body again.
He fumbles in the dark and grabs his wallet. Stares at Her drawing for an hour, then tries to lie back down again.
She’s fine. She has to be fine.
He closes his eyes by accident. Shoots right up, and makes for his pants and shoes.
“Where’re you going?” Sam asks when Dean storms past him, barely looking up from his book.
“Out.” Dean grunts, because it’s not worth even trying to lie to Sam anymore.
He’s not even that good at lying to himself.
Because he tries to protect Her from afar. He swears up and down that he won’t go back to Her, won’t keep stealing Her time and affection, won’t tempt himself with something he can never have. With a love he’s never going to be able to hold.
But he has to see Her. Now. Just to be sure that she’s safe.
So Dean goes.
It’s three in the morning, when you hear the knock. You wouldn’t have gotten up to answer it, if you hadn’t recognized it as Dean’s. He knocks the same way every time. Sometimes you mimic it on the table, to torture yourself with the idea of him being there.
And he pops up whenever he pops up. You’ve long stopped trying to track his appearances, but you know he doesn’t show up on your doorstep at the start of the week, and he doesn’t show up in the middle of the night.
It’s a Tuesday. It’s been Tuesday, for three hours.
You walk a little faster, rubbing your eyes and grabbing the baseball bat he insists you keep in the closet. If it is your Dean, he might be in danger. If it’s not, you’re about to bash someone’s brains in and sprint for the hills.
The knock repeats, a little louder than last time. You hear him call your name through the door, and it certainly sounds like Dean. When you lean up to look through the peephole, it looks like Dean.
He’s swaying in the hall, eyes glossy and a little bloodshot. There’s a strangely relaxed look on his face, and sighs heavily when you still don’t open the door, stumbling forward to drop his brow against the wood.
“I know you’re in there.” He mumbles, hand reaching up to trace the door. “Heard you walkin’ around. If you got someone in there, I can just sit on the couch or somethin’. Won’t even talk, just wanted to…”
He sighs heavily, and your chest aches. Your fingers move to the knob, begging you to just remove the barrier between you, but something’s twisting in your gut. You’ve never seen him act like this. Never seen him look so tired and desperate, and that doesn’t seem like a monster thing, but he had told you to be careful-
“I was thinkin’ about you.” He mumbles. “Missed you. Always missin’ you all the time, and- I dunno. Had a dream, it’s kinda fuckin’ stupid, but- Can you cough for me, baby? Need to hear that you’re alright, then I’ll go.” He looks up, almost staring at you through the peephole, and you swallow. Your hand closes around the doorknob, the opposite one slipping on the bat, and-
You wait a little too long to respond. Dean sighs heavily, taking a large step back and shoving his hands into his pockets. The step alone takes a second for him to recover from, his whole body swaying from the motion. You let the bat fall from your hand, because you need both hands to reach for him, but-
“Never mind.” He says, shaking his head. “’m gonna go. Sleep well, baby. Love you.”
You almost kick the door off its hinges, his words like ice water being doused over your head.
Love.
He said he- He said-
Dean’s face splits into a wide, boyish grin the moment he sees you. He says your name, barreling forward, and pulls you into his arms. He’s warm, holding onto you tight enough you’re being picked up off your feet. You hug him back, still dazed, the world moving too fast.
Love. He said love. He said-
He mumbles your name, pressing his face into your neck, and you brush your fingers through his hair lightly. He’s still made of muscle and soft strength, but something about it feels delicate. He’s not really saying anything, which isn’t Dean at all. He’s still swaying back and forth, and he smells like the same warm cologne and full, deep Dean smell he’s always had, but there’s also-
Liquor. He smells like whiskey and beer.
He’s drunk.
You sigh. The swaying and strangeness. For whatever reason, Dean’s just wasted, and he chose to come to you.
It’s not something you can allow yourself to read into right now. That can happen in the morning, when he’s safe and sobered up, and you can try to read his reaction to waking up in your apartment. For now you just guide him backwards inside—you try to pull away, but he makes a sound like a kicked puppy and holds you tighter—and slowly coax him out of his shoes and jacket.
“Did you drive here?” You ask softly as you work the jacket off his shoulders, and he nods.
“Mhm. You’re warm.”
You swallow. “Thank you. Dean, baby, you shouldn’t drive drunk-“
“‘M not drunk-“
“You really are-“
“Only had like- Five drinks. Four.” He leans back, scrunching his face a little too adorably. “How many are in the big pack thingys?”
“How many… Beers?”
He shrugs, fingers reaching up to play with your hair. “Uh huh. We can go count the bottles. I broke one when a freakin’ bird started shoutin’ at me, but the others. Got ‘em still.”
“You- Dean.“ You lean back, grabbing his face between your hands. He looks at you with a bright, hopeful adoration, and it only makes your chest ache more.
He says your name, leaning forward with a grin—a full, wide smile you’ve never seen on his face—and you take a deep breath.
“Did you drink them, then drive? Or drive, then-“
“I drank ‘em then drove.” He shrugs. “‘M not that stupid. Not tryin’ to die before I can see you.” He leans down, pressing his brow against yours. “You’re pretty.”
You flush. “Thank you. I- I didn’t think you were gonna, but- Shit-“ He presses further over you, making you stumble back slightly.
Some of Dean’s usual instinct seems to kick in as you fall. He wraps his arm tightly around your back, and pulls you up before falling to the couch, forcing you to straddle his lap.
He grins up at you, still open and joyful, and sinks into the cushions so easily.
“I ain’t drunk.”
You sigh. “Dean-“
“‘m not. You’re pretty.”
“You’ve said that twice now.”
“Doesn’t make it less true. You’re so hot, it’s freakin’ crazy.” He drops his face into your chest, like it’s physically paining him to look at you. “You don’t get it, sweetheart. I haven’t even been able to watch porn anymore ‘cause of you. ’S not the same.”
You flush, opening and closing your mouth in a pointless attempt to try and find a way to respond to that.
There really isn’t one. Not with the word love still ringing in your head like a church bell.
You settle for a soft. “Oh.”
Dean just hums, and when you gently guide his head back, his eyes are heavy and a little dopey. He’s still smiling at you, even as they droop. You run your fingers through his hair and he sighs happily.
“You’re okay.” He murmurs, almost to himself. It cleaves your heart in half.
“Yeah. I’m okay.” You smile softly. “You’re drunk.”
“Nah-“
“You had six beers, my love.” You let yourself call him that. If he said it, you can too, and he doesn’t even really seem to notice at all.
He just makes another like face and shakes his head. “No, I had the pack-“
“Yeah.” Your smile grows. “That’s six.”
“Hm.” He pauses, clearly thinking a little too hard about this. “Six. Siiiix. Sex.” He grins at you. “We should have sex-“
“No.” You place a hand flat on his chest, giving him a stern look. “You’re drunk, buddy. No sex.”
He pouts for a second, staring down at his shoes, then sighs. “Fine.”
You giggle at his complete dejection, tracing your hands over the planes of his chest. His breath starts to pick up, fingers squeezing on your hips, and it might be rude to tease him like this but it’s so fun. Especially when he leans a little bit up like he’s going to try and take you, but then manages to pull himself back and flops down sadly into the cushions.
“Can we have sex in the morning please?” He asks hopefully, and you hum.
“We’ll see.”
That just makes him pout more. “Why. If you don’t wanna, just tell me and I’ll be super cool about it-“
“You’re begging me right now,” you tease, and he makes a sour expression.
“‘M not begging.”
“You said please-“
“It’s bein’ polite. And,” he leans up, until his handsome, drunken face is only inches from yours. “I really wanna have sex with you.”
“I know.” You whisper, eyes wide on his.
And you shouldn’t ask. You shouldn’t. He’s drunk, he doesn’t know what he’s saying, he might not mean any of this at all.
But-
“Why?” You say, so quiet you almost can’t hear it yourself.
He frowns. “Huh?”
“Why do you wanna have sex with me? We-“ You swallow. “We’ve done it a lot before. In almost all the positions.” You smile weakly. “You gotta be tired of me by now.”
Dean blinks at you. Like he doesn’t even understand what you’re saying. “Yeah, but… I love you.”
That’s what you wanted to hear. What you were fishing for.
It still knocks all the air out of your lungs when you hear it. In full, plainly like he can’t fathom that there would ever be another answer, hanging in the silence of your living room as you just stare at Dean’s open face.
He said it. He said it. You’re breathing too fast, your nails sinking into his shoulders like you can cling to the confession, like you’re trying to swallow it down before he can take it back.
But Dean just keeps blinking up at you, almost innocently adoring.
He’s so drunk.
This isn’t about you. It’s about Dean. About forcing yourself to smile and kiss him gently, before standing up and guiding him into the shower. Checking him for injuries before getting him changed. Brushing his teeth then herding him into bed.
Some foolish part of you thought you’d be able to go turn off the living room light while he waited. You don’t even get off the bed before Dean’s arms are around your waist, and you’re being yanked back down.
“Don’t go.” He mumbles against the back of your neck, and you sigh.
“Dean-“
“Please.”
You swallow, then nod. Curl fully back, rubbing his forearms around you until his breathing starts to steady, his body slowly going limp.
“Never want you to go.” He says suddenly, right before you think he’s about to fall asleep. His voice is raw and tired.
Tears sting at your eyes. “I’m still here, Dean. Right here.” You squeeze his arm, and he sighs.
“Yeah, but it’s gonna be gone.” He sighs. “Wish I could stay. Or take you with me, but… Can’t.”
“You could.” You whisper, twisting to watch him in the dark. “I- I’d go.”
He just stares at you for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse.
“You shouldn’t.”
“I would.”
His throat bobs. For a second, there’s something new shining his eyes. It’s clearer than everything else. Burning right into you with his attention, his hands a little tighter on your body.
“I keep a drawing of you in my wallet.” He rasps, and your heart does a little skip.
“I have a folder of your photos on my phone. I- I show them to my friends.” You flush. “They think I made you up.”
Dean’s mouth twitches. He’s starting to sound like himself again. “Did you?”
“Make you up?” You whisper.
He nods.
“I don’t know. I- I hope not.”
“I hope I didn’t make you up either.” He traces his hand down your arm, never breaking your gaze.
You swallow. “I feel real.”
He hums. “That’s good. Would suck pretty bad if you weren’t.”
You laugh softly, and Dean watches you like you’re the most important thing he’s ever going to see. You smile at him. He leans a little closer.
“Sometimes I just stand outside.” He rasps. “If I got a night. I’ll drive up here and just… Sit in the fuckin’ parking lot.”
“I watched a documentary about you.” You offer. “It called you a crazy serial killer.”
His mouth twitches. “I am-“
“I left it a one-star review.” You raise your voice over his. “And I- I still opened the door.”
“You… You did.” He mutters. “Every single time.”
“Yeah. I did.”
For a second, you just stare at each other. Time doesn’t feel like it’s moving. You don’t want it to.
“When you sit in the parking lot.” You say softly. “Why don’t you come inside?”
He chuckles, rolling onto his back. “Cause I’m gonna do something stupid. Like this, and sayin’ that I-“
He cuts himself off, hand curling on his chest. You push up on your elbows, hanging over him, and he stares at you with a clear helplessness.
Dean mutters your name, clearly begging you not to say it.
But he said it first. And you need to know. If you’re allowed to stop playing games now.
If you’re allowed to have him.
“You love me?” You finish for him, and Dean sighs.
“I- Don’t say that, sweetheart-“
“You said it-“
“I was drunk.” He mutters. He won’t look at you anymore. “I was drunk and talkin’ stupid and- Just don’t. Please.”
You swallow, your heart caught in your throat. You could swallow it, and hope you digest it this time. That it finally passes through you, and the game is done like that.
But you don’t want to.
Dean is looking at you like he expects you to kick him out. Like he’s bracing for you to spit venom and hit his chest and curse his name. He’s almost shrinking away from you, one hand clinging to your wrist even as he makes a face like his heart is already breaking.
You won’t let it. Not here. Not when him breaking would break you too.
So you lie down next to him. Move your hand to tangle in his, your shoulders pressed together, Dean’s breathing shallow as he turns to watch you in the dark.
You look at him, and smile. Let all your love for him shine in it, squeezing his hand once.
He holds yours tighter. Holds onto it for dear life.
Says your name, and this. This is begging. Maybe for you to stop, or go, or just do the simple thing and kick him out.
You won’t. Not now. When he’s there, and maybe yours, and- And-
You could have him.
In all his broken, drunken and exhausted beauty, you can have Dean.
“What would you say?” You murmur, and his lips press in a tight line.
“I- I dunno-“
“Can I tell you what I would say? If- If you’d ever asked?”
Dean swallows, but nods. You smile again. It’s so easy, when you’re looking at him.
“I’d tell you I love you.” You whisper. Dean’s grip tightens. “That I’ve been in love with you for- Pretty much the whole time. That I hate watching you leave, and I hate when you pretend like you don’t care if I’m dating, and I hate when you remind me that you might not come back, because I need you. I need you to come back. Every- Every time you go-“ You cut yourself off, your voice starting to ache. “Every time you leave me I hate you. But I love you so much it doesn’t matter. I- I like loving you so much more than I hate missing you. Dean, I-“
He says your name, words tight and choked, and you shake your head.
“I love you. I love you so, so much, I’m never gonna-“ You take long unsteady breath. “You just leave me here. And I wait. Because I love you.”
And Dean just stares at you. Holds your hand and stares at you, his face pale and flushed all at the same time.
“No.” He finally mutters. He still doesn’t let go of your hand. “Sweetheart, that’s- You love the idea of me, you don’t love the real thing-“
You snort dryly. “The real you?”
“Yeah.” He snaps, sitting up suddenly. “The real me. I’m not just some fuckin’- Sex guy who drops in, fucks you, then runs off to a day job. I kill people, baby. I got a body count bigger than any documentary is gonna tell you, I got people who hunt me down for what I’ve done, there ain’t anyone in my life because everyone who was there is fuckin’ dead, and I-“ He shakes his head, starting to pull back. “I’m not lettin’ that happen to you. No. No way in hell-“
“Why?” You demand, and your voice isn’t harsh or even that loud, but it cuts Dean off completely. “Why don’t you want it to happen to me?”
He makes a sour expression. “Because.”
“Because?”
“Yeah. ’S what I said-“
“Is it because you love me?”
Dean scowls. “That doesn’t matter-“
“It matters to me-“
“‘Cause you think you’re in love with me.” He spits. He’s still holding your hand. “And I’m tellin’ you, you’re not, so it doesn’t matter-“
“I am in love with you.” You sit up, making your voice firmer. Unwavering. “And I know you, Dean. I’m not just some girl who got the wrong idea about something, I know you. You’ve told me everything, even the ugly shit, and I kept opening the door.” You glare at him, and he freezes, staring at you with wide-eyes. “I sit with you after all your nightmares, I let you bring a gun into my house, I look you up on the news every day because I am terrified you’re going to die and come back all wrong or whatever, and I’m going have to figure out how to be strong enough not to open the door.”
Dean’s mouth falls a little bit open, and you glare at him, far from done.
“Because I would. I’d let you in with those creepy black eyes and I don’t even think I’d regret it. Because I love you.”
Dean makes a strangled sound, and you poke his chest.
“You show up covered in blood and talking crazy about angels and demons, you give me fuckin’ gun and booby trap my apartment and make me do codewords, and I let you in. I know who you are, Dean Winchester. I know exactly who you are.”
He catches your hand on his chest, expression fully broken, and pleads your name. You curl your fingers on his chest and hold his hand.
“You’re a good man.” Your voice turns soft, and he cringes like you hit him. “You’re a good man, Dean. I don’t love you because of the sex, even if the sex is great.” You laugh softly.
Dean looks like he tries to laugh, but it comes out more in a sound like a wounded animal. Silent tears are streaming down his face, and you sigh.
Reach up to wipe them away, and let Dean bow into your touch. His eyes are hooded, and trapped on yours.
You offer him a small smile.
“I love you because you make me happy.” You say. “I love you because you keep trying to protect me, even when it hurts you. I love you because when I tried to hit on you at a bar by saying you had big shoulders, you gave me pointers about how to pick other guys up, then asked if you could be the first I try them on. I love you because when I laughed, you apologized and started just talking to me. And we talked for so long, and you called me pretty, and I- I’d been called that before, but-“ You give him a sad smile, tears staining your own cheeks. “You didn’t want anything. You just- You just said it because you wanted me to know, and it felt good to be known.”
You shift toward, rising on your knees to press your brow to his.
“I like you.” You whisper. “Like like you. I like like knowing you. And I like like loving you. I- Never used those moves on anyone else.” You giggle softly, tears still falling. “They worked once really well. And I don’t want to try them again. I kind of really love what I have.”
Dean blinks at you slowly. His tongue darts over his lips, eyes flicking down to your own, breath still ragged. If he needs to kiss you, you’ll let him.
But instead, he just starts to cry.
Dean folds over you, body shaking, and cries. It starts muffled and restrained—like he’s still trying to shove it back down—but you rub his back and hold him close, and he slowly falls apart.
You move slowly, so that you’re lying against the headboard and Dean is in your lap. You keep him gently in your arms, kissing the top of his head every few moments and running your hands soothingly over his shoulders, his back, through his soft hair. Slowly, the choked sounds turn to heavy breaths, and he eases himself down.
His face presses into your stomach as his chest rises and falls. You wait, cradling the back of his neck and humming to yourself softly. Eventually Dean turns to look up at you, eyes still red, and lets out a heavy sigh.
“I- I do.” He says, voice rough, and you just smile.
“I know.”
He heaves, crawling a little up your body. “I mean it, baby, I do-“
“Dean.” You cup his face, and he freezes. “I know.”
His mouth twitches. You just smile in return. Dean grabs your hand, turning to press a kiss to your wrist. His eyes shine when you giggle, tension releasing from his shoulders.
He collapses over your body with a heavy sigh.
“I’m gonna feel like shit in the morning.” He grumbles, and you laugh.
“It’s six, De. Basically is the morning.”
“Great. I feel like shit now.”
“You could go to sleep. That might help.”
Dean hums skeptically. “Are you gonna sleep.”
“No.” The whole night still has you too wound up. “Not tired.”
“Hm.” He pushes up over you, elbows braced on either side of your head, pinning you to the mattress.
His nose bumps yours, and your eyes widen, hands flying to his chest.
“I could help with that.” He murmurs, and you swallow.
“Dean-“
“I got a clear head.” He kisses the corner of your mouth gently. “Swear. I’ll do the alphabet backwards if you wanna hear it, but if I’m bein’ honest I can’t do that front or back-“
You tug him down for a full, deep kiss. It’s slow. Lazy. His tongue traces your lips and you open with a soft moan, legs spreading as Dean’s mouth works you up quickly.
But still, you gently push him back. He goes easily, raising his brows, and you flush. Glance down to his shirt, where your fingers have started to play with the soft fabric.
“Are you…” Your eyes dart back up to his. “Are you gonna stay? In the morning?”
Dean nods, no uncertainty in his voice. “Yeah.“ He grabs your hands, pulling them up to kiss your knuckles. “I’m gonna stay until you kick me out, alright. Might come and go, but- You can come if you want. An if you don’t, I got a phone, and my brother’s phone, and a laptop that I can steal-“
“Dean-“
“Point is I’m yours.” He says quickly, sounding a little frustrated with himself. “I stay until you kick me out.”
“I won’t.” You say quickly, and Dean grins.
Truly, fully grins.
“Guess I’m gonna be here a long time, then.”
“Yeah. Guess you are.”
His grin impossibly widens, eyes darting down to your body. “And…”
You laugh. “We can have sex in the morning.”
Dean collapses back over you with a dramatic groan of relief. “Thank god. And- After that, too?”
You giggle, kissing the top of his head, and he curls further into your body. Looks at you like you’re more than an angel, his voice still teasing, but also just a little more.
Filled with affection, and hope, and love.
He’s yours to love.
“Yeah.” You say, and Dean beams. “We can do whatever you want.”
✦End note: thank you for reading i don't even have a joke for this one i really hope you liked it i hope it wasn't butt thank you.✦
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Summary: You’re the popular cheerleader with the “perfect” life. Then you get paired with the new kid, Dean Winchester. What starts as a school project turns into something a lot deeper… and a lot messier.
-requested-
Pairing: Dean x Reader
Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, Angst, Language
Word Count: 8558
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
The grocery store was practically your second home by now. Half the staff greeted you by name and you could shop blindfolded, guided by Timothy’s giggles echoing down the aisles. He was four, wild as ever, legs a blur in his favorite dinosaur sneakers as he darted ahead of you. “Don’t go too far, Tim!”, you called, only half-serious. He was a good kid, and besides, the other regulars always kept an eye out for “Y/N’s boy”.
He whipped around the corner toward the cereal aisle, calling, “I’ll get the chocolate stars, Mommy!”. You smiled, shaking your head, and started on autopilot after him, one hand already reaching for your phone in your purse.
But around the bend, Timothy skidded to a stop, nearly colliding with a tall man in a leather jacket, his broad back blocking most of the lower shelves. The man crouched to compare two boxes, cereal in one hand, the other holding the familiar black plastic scoop for bulk oats. Timothy, undeterred by size or strangers, peered up at him with wide, curious eyes.
“Hey, mister!”, Timothy piped up, hands on his hips in perfect imitation of you when you meant business. “You’re in my way. I need my chocolate stars!”.
Dean didn’t look up, distracted by the labels, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Yeah? Well, looks like I need the last box of Frosted Flakes, kid. Gotta be quick in this world”. His tone was playfully gruff, like he’d talked to a thousand little boys in a thousand towns.
Timothy huffed, determined not to be intimidated. “Well, you can have Frosted Flakes, but only if you help me get the chocolate stars up there. I’m too little, see?”. He pointed up at the highest shelf, where the cereal he wanted teetered out of reach.
Dean finally glanced down, about to deliver some witty line about climbing shelves, but the words got stuck in his throat. For a moment, all he could do was stare.
Because staring back at him was a boy with stubborn, tousled brown hair and a pair of green eyes so achingly familiar they knocked the air from his lungs. The kid’s face was Dean’s childhood in miniature: same upturned nose, same strong jaw, the same scrunch of his brows in concentration. It was like looking in a mirror, if the mirror looked back from twenty years ago.
Dean cleared his throat, blinking hard and shaking his head. “Alright, deal”. He reached up, easily snagging the box and handing it to Timothy. “There you go, kid. One chocolate stars. You gotta promise you won’t try climbing for these, alright? It’s a long way down”.
Timothy nodded solemnly. “I promise. My mom says I’m not supposed to climb, ‘cept in the playground. Thanks, mister!”.
Dean’s hand shook as he set his own cereal down. “You always shop here?”, he managed, voice uneven. He didn’t know why he asked, except that he suddenly needed to know everything about this little boy.
Timothy nodded, hugging the box to his chest. “We come here all the time. Jane says I’m the mayor of the cereal aisle”. He grinned, gap-toothed and proud. “Hey, wanna see my new shoes? They have dinosaurs. Rawr!”. He stomped a foot, showing off.
Dean let out a startled, shaky laugh, the sound low and rough in his chest. He crouched, eyes level with Timothy’s, drawn in despite himself. “Those are some serious shoes, bud. You must be real fast”.
“I am! I beat Mommy in a race last week”. Timothy’s eyes darted past Dean’s shoulder. “That’s her! Mommy! Look!”.
You turned the corner just in time to see your son, box of cereal in hand, talking animatedly to a man in a battered leather jacket.
The moment your eyes landed on Dean, the world seemed to freeze. Your heart stopping, breath caught in your throat. Dean turned, green eyes meeting yours with a shock that nearly knocked both of you off your feet.
His lips parted, but for a long, breathless moment, he said nothing. Timothy, oblivious to the hurricane brewing above him, tugged your hand. “Mommy, this is my new friend. He helped me!”.
You swallowed hard, every muscle in your body vibrating between flight and something that felt a lot like hope… or maybe just heartbreak, coming home again.
Dean found his voice first. “Hey”, he said, barely more than a whisper.
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. All you could do was stare, your fingers tightening on the plastic handle of the basket so hard it bit into your skin. You weren’t in your old town anymore, hadn’t been for years, but right here, under hot grocery store lights, surrounded by cartoon mascots and cereal dust, it was like you’d never left that night in your childhood bedroom, waiting for a message that never came.
Dean stood slowly, gaze flicking from you to Timothy, then back to you. There was disbelief in his eyes, a fear you remembered from long ago, but something softer, too, something like longing, like loss. The lines in his face were older, deeper, but he looked exactly the same as the boy you’d loved so fiercely it broke you.
“Dean”. Your voice came out small, too soft, but it was enough. The sound of his name on your lips made him close his eyes for a second, like it hurt. Maybe it did.
Timothy looked between the two of you, his excitement undimmed by the tension swirling above his head. “He helped me get the chocolate stars”.
You nodded, trying to find your balance, your whole body trembling with the impossible truth of him standing here. “He did, huh?”, you managed, smoothing Timothy’s hair, as if you could fix this whole impossible moment with the right touch. “He’s always been good at reaching things”.
Dean’s lips twitched, that old, crooked smile ghosting across his face. Just a flash, just for you, before all the years and regrets folded it away. He crouched again, meeting Timothy’s proud, bright stare. “Gotta look out for the short guys”, Dean said, voice gentler than you’d heard in years.
Timothy beamed. “Mommy says I’m getting taller every day”. He looked between the two of you, oblivious to the ache in the air. “Mommy, can Dean come see my toy cars? I have lots. Jane says I have too many but I don’t think you can have too many cars”.
You couldn’t help it, you laughed, watery and wild and a little broken. Dean’s eyes snapped to yours, and you saw in them all the things he wanted to say but couldn’t, not here, not now, not with four years and a little boy between you.
You knelt beside Timothy, your hand on his shoulder, grounding both of you. “Maybe another time, bud. We have to finish shopping now”. Your voice wavered. “Say thank you to Dean”.
Timothy grinned up at Dean and stuck out his little hand, the cereal box clutched awkwardly under his arm. “Thanks, Dean! I hope you find good cereal too”.
Dean took Timothy’s hand in his, his fingers shaking just a little. “You’re welcome. Take care of your mom, okay? That’s an important job”.
“I always do!”, Timothy declared, oblivious to the way your eyes stung.
Dean let go, standing awkwardly, the space between you suddenly too much and not enough. He looked at you and all you could do was look back.
You could see the question burning in Dean’s eyes—Is he mine?—but he held it back, the way he’d always bitten down on anything too raw. For a second you both just stood there, the awkwardness a wall neither of you knew how to climb, the distance between you thick with years and regrets and too many things unsaid.
You cleared your throat, shifting your weight, glancing down at Timothy, who was now wholly absorbed in a battle with his sneaker laces, tongue sticking out in fierce concentration. It was almost a relief to have something to look at that wasn’t Dean’s face.
Dean tried to smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “So, uh. You in town or just passing through?”. His voice cracked at the end, like he was sixteen again, asking for your number after practice.
You shook your head. “We live here. Just a few blocks away, actually. Not—”, you hesitated, “not far”.
He nodded, swallowing hard, then let out a soft, self-deprecating chuckle. “I’m working a case nearby. Figured I’d grab some groceries. Didn’t expect—”. He broke off, eyes flicking to Timothy. “Well. Didn’t expect this”.
You laughed, but it came out brittle and shy. “Yeah. Grocery store magic, right?”.
He shrugged, and for a split second you saw the real Dean under all the layers. Charming, nervous and completely overwhelmed. “I, uh… I was gonna ask if you wanted to get a coffee or something, catch up, but…”. He glanced again at Timothy, who was now holding his shoe up triumphantly for you to inspect. “Maybe a playground?”. His smile, hesitant but hopeful, lingered between you.
You smiled back, the ache in your chest a little softer than before. “Playground sounds good. He could use the run".
“Yeah?”, Dean said with something fragile in his voice, as if he was asking for more than just an afternoon.
You nodded, clearing the catch in your throat. “Yeah. There’s one just a few blocks from here. Has swings and a slide. He’ll love it”.
Timothy, catching just the tail end of the conversation, pumped his fists. “Yes! Can we bring the chocolate stars, Mommy? Please? And can Dean push me really high?”.
You managed a real laugh this time, glancing at Dean. “Careful, he’ll hold you to that. He’s kind of fearless”.
Dean smiled, softer and realer than you’d seen since you were both teenagers. “Yeah, I can tell. He’s got that look”. He looked down at Timothy, ruffling his hair just the way you always did. “I’ll race you to the swings, kid”. Timothy grinned, immediately plotting out the quickest route in his head.
You finished the last few aisles together, your hands sometimes brushing, your words awkward and quiet, just small talk, about pie and traffic, about the weird old cat at Jane’s place, about nothing and everything. Dean glanced at Timothy again and again, searching his face for answers, like he was trying to catch up on every year he’d missed in the lines of his smile.
At checkout, you caught Dean staring at the way Timothy pressed his face to your arm, clinging to your side like he’d always belonged there. Dean’s mouth twisted, pride and regret tangled up in the same look, but he didn’t say a word, just offered to carry your bags to the car. You let him.
Outside, he waited while you settled the groceries in the trunk, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, nerves dancing in his eyes. Timothy climbed into his booster seat with a running leap, still talking about playground races and chocolate stars. You buckled him in, fingers gentle on the straps, and when you glanced over your shoulder, Dean was still there, awkward and hopeful and so heartbreakingly familiar.
You shut the car door, drawing a breath before turning to him. The moment felt bigger than just a playground date, it felt like offering a bridge across all those missing years.
“So… tomorrow at two?”, you said quietly, glancing at Dean, hoping your voice didn’t shake.
He nodded, swallowing, the weight of it all plain in the set of his jaw. “Yeah. Playground. I’ll be there. Promise”.
You hesitated, then pulled a scrap of receipt paper from your purse, scribbling your address and phone number in quick, shaky lines. You handed it over, your fingertips brushing his. “Just in case you need directions. Or… I don’t know, anything”. Dean’s eyes darted to your writing, then up to yours, a raw gratitude breaking through the nerves. “Thanks. I, uh… thanks”.
Neither of you said what you were really thinking, not with Timothy just behind the glass and the late afternoon sun painting memories onto the parking lot. But something softened in your chest, something stubborn and hopeful.
Timothy banged his fists on the window, waving like a windmill. “Bye, Dean! See you tomorrow! Don’t forget the chocolate stars!”. Dean grinned. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, kid”.
You slid into the driver’s seat, watching Dean in your mirror as you pulled away. He stood there with your address in hand, looking after you like he was still catching his breath.
-
Dean’s hands were still shaking on the wheel when he pulled into the cracked lot outside the little roadside motel, the sun slipping behind the sign that buzzed NO VACANCY in a tired neon whine. He sat there for a minute, forehead pressed to the steering wheel, trying to make sense of the earthquake in his chest, the way Timothy’s face kept flashing in his mind, the way you’d said his name, soft and uncertain.
He checked his phone, thumb hovering over your number. His phone was brand new. Again. The contacts list short: just Sam, Bobby and a few other hunters. No old messages. No traces of the life he’d left behind except the ache in his bones.
When he finally stepped out, grocery bag swinging from his hand, he could hear Sam’s voice through the thin door of room 12, reciting Latin under his breath as he typed furiously. Dean braced himself, pasted on a cocky smirk, and knocked.
“’Bout time, man”, Sam called, not looking up. “Find anything good?”.
Dean set the groceries on the tiny table. Cereal, jerky and a pie he didn’t remember grabbing. He moved on autopilot, like muscle memory from every other motel, every other hunt. “Yeah. You could say that”, Dean replied, his voice too rough, too soft.
Sam finally looked up, brow furrowed. “You okay? You look… weird”.
Dean huffed a laugh, rubbing his mouth, glancing away. “Just ran into someone. From before”.
Sam sat up straighter, sensing the gravity in Dean’s voice. “Someone important?”.
Dean nodded, swallowed, and for a second all the years between then and now pressed down on him. “Yeah, Sammy. You could say that”.
He dropped onto the edge of the bed, letting the tired springs creak beneath him. The weight of your address, your number, pressed against his thigh through the denim. The thought of Timothy, of the kid who who loved cars and dinosaurs, who looked at Dean with that same stubborn spark, echoed in his mind.
Sam closed his laptop, the hunt forgotten. “Dean, what happened?”.
Dean stared at the pie a long moment, fingers drumming a restless beat on the tin, his mind spinning with memories and the thousand questions that meeting had yanked loose inside him. Finally, he let out a breath and said it.
“I ran into Y/N”.
Sam’s eyes widened, all the focus he’d had for the hunt evaporating. “Wait—her? Like, your Y/N? Cheerleader, townie, had you head over heels, Y/N?”.
Dean flinched, almost smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, that Y/N”. He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe it even now. “She was at the grocery store. Just… just standing there. Looked at me like she’d seen a ghost”.
Sam watched him, brow furrowed, worry and hope flickering over his face. “And…?”, he prompted.
Dean’s thumb found the folded scrap of paper in his pocket, smoothing the corner over and over. “She’s got a kid, Sam. A little boy”. His voice went softer still, almost reverent. “Name’s Timothy. Four years old. Brown hair, green eyes, damn spitting image”. He paused, and for a heartbeat Sam thought he might actually break. “He’s mine, Sam. He’s gotta be. I just… I know it”.
Sam sat in stunned silence, the gravity of it settling between them like dust in sunlight. He finally spoke, careful, gentle, like the kid he’d always been deep down. “Did you talk to her? Did you… say anything?”.
Dean nodded, eyes shiny but fierce. “Yeah. We talked. Not about— not about everything. Not yet. She gave me her address. Said I could come by tomorrow, see them”. He hesitated, voice trembling. “I missed it all, man. All those years. I didn’t even know—God, I didn’t know”.
Sam crossed the room, sitting on the bed beside his brother, the hunt forgotten for now. “You know now”, he said quietly. “That’s what matters. You get another shot, Dean. Don’t screw it up”.
Dean managed a laugh, a real one, thick with nerves and hope. “Yeah. Guess I better not”.
-
Sunday morning dawned bright and full of a restless, impossible energy. Timothy was up before the sun, bouncing around the apartment in a storm of excitement. He pulled on his jeans backward, then right-side out, then his favorite dinosaur socks, barely sitting still long enough for you to brush his hair.
“Dean’s coming today, right, Mommy?”, he asked for the third time before breakfast, clutching his little leather jacket to his chest. You’d found it at a thrift store ages ago. A perfect miniature of the one Dean always wore, with silver snaps and sleeves that were still a touch too long. As soon as Timothy had seen it, he’d declared himself “Super cool like in the movies”.
You smiled, trying to ignore the nervous flutter in your own chest. “Yes, baby. Dean’s coming. But you have to eat something before we go, okay? No playground races on an empty stomach”.
Timothy wolfed down his cereal in record time, then wriggled into his jacket, striking a pose in the mirror. “Look, Mommy! We match now!”. He grinned up at you, that same wild, hopeful spark you remembered from his father flickering bright in his eyes. For a moment you just watched him, heart aching with love, anxiety and a dash of hope so sharp it nearly hurt.
The hours crawled by, Timothy peppering you with questions as you packed snacks, wiped his face again, checked your phone twice a minute. When he finally heard the rumble of an engine outside, he ran to the window, pressing his hands and nose to the glass. “Is that him? Is that Dean? Mommy, come look!”.
You joined him, heart in your throat, watching as Dean stepped out of a black muscle car that looked as battered and beloved as ever. He paused at the curb, glancing up at your window, squinting into the sun. You waved, small, almost shy, and he waved back, his face splitting into the kind of smile you hadn’t seen in years. The kind that made you want to believe in second chances.
Timothy tugged at your sleeve, practically vibrating. “Come on, Mommy! We gotta go! I gotta show Dean my jacket!”.
You grabbed the snacks, the wipes, your keys and took his hand, letting him pull you out the door and down the steps into the golden morning.
Dean had barely shut his car door before Timothy was on him, arms wide, face split by a grin so bright it could’ve powered the whole block. “Dean!”, he shouted, launching himself forward. “Look! I have a jacket like yours!”.
Dean crouched just in time to catch him, laughter spilling out as Timothy practically tackled him with a hug. Dean hugged him back, awkward and stunned for half a second, then melted, scooping Timothy up like he’d done it a thousand times before. “Well, would you look at that!”, Dean grinned, tapping the collar of Timothy’s jacket and then his own. “You look just like me, kid. Think you could handle driving my car one day?”.
Timothy’s eyes went wide with wonder. “Can I, Mommy? Can I? Please?”.
You laughed, heart aching in the best possible way. “You gotta learn how to tie both shoes first, buddy, but maybe someday”.
Dean caught your eyes over Timothy’s head, something unspoken but soft and full in his gaze. “He always like this?”, he asked, voice rough with disbelief and wonder, still holding Timothy close.
You smiled, a little shy, a little proud. “Pretty much. But with you? Even more”.
Dean looked down at Timothy, ruffling his hair. “Guess we better go tear up that playground, huh? See if you can beat me to the swings”.
Timothy squirmed out of Dean’s arms, landing on his feet and bouncing in place. “Race you!”. He was gone in an instant, his laughter trailing behind as he took off toward the park nearby, already hollering for you both to hurry up.
Dean straightened, still watching Timothy, his jaw working as he tried to process this new, wild love. “He’s… he’s something else”.
You fell into step beside him, hope blooming shy and stubborn in your chest. “Yeah, he really is”.
-
Dean pushed Timothy higher and higher on the swings, chased him through the slides and monkey bars, caught him by the armpits just as he “crashed” into Dean’s waiting arms, both of them laughing until they were out of breath. You sat on the sidelines at first, watching and letting Dean have this, letting Timothy bask in it.
By the time they wandered back, cheeks flushed and hair tousled, Timothy was nearly nodding off on his feet. You spread out a thin blanket, and he curled right up in your lap, head heavy against your chest.
Dean dropped down beside you, silent for a while. He watched Timothy’s sleeping face, the smudge of dirt on his nose, the way his hand relaxed only when he felt your palm over his heart. You saw the emotions flicker and fight across Dean’s face. Disbelief, pride and a grief so old it had grown into something gentler.
Finally, Dean cleared his throat, still staring at his son. “So… he’s mine, isn’t he?”. His voice was soft, hopeful, almost afraid.
You couldn’t help the watery laugh that slipped out, brushing your fingers through Timothy’s hair. “Dean. Do you really need to ask?”. You tried to keep it light, but your voice cracked with everything it meant. “He’s a Winchester through and through. The attitude alone gives it away”.
Dean looked at you, his eyes bright with tears he wouldn’t let fall. “I missed everything”, he whispered, guilt heavy in every syllable. “I’m so sorry. Fuck, I´m so sorry (Y/N). I didn’t know. I never—”. You shook your head, pain and love mingling, not letting him finish. “I know. It wasn’t your fault. None of it. I tried, but…”. You paused, swallowing around the lump in your throat. You met Dean’s eyes, voice barely a whisper. “You never answered”.
Dean’s brow furrowed, confusion flickering in his gaze. “What do you mean? I—Y/N, I never—”.
You reached for your phone, heart pounding as you scrolled through years of silent confessions, of hope sent into a void. You found that first trembling message, the one you’d sent the moment you knew for sure, hands shaking so hard you almost dropped the phone. You held it out to Dean, watching as he took it, eyes scanning the words.
Message after message, updates, words you’d poured out on birthdays, holidays, all the little moments that had come and gone without him.
Dean’s fingers closed around your phone with a kind of reverence, his thumb hovering over the dim-lit screen. You could see the tension in his jaw as he read, line after line of your messages, small text boxes stretching back over four years.
"It’s a boy. I wish you could see him, Dean. he looks just like you already.he has your eyes. I just know it".
"Happy birthday. i hope you’re okay. i miss you so much it hurts".
"he’s walking now. he fell and skinned his knee but he didn’t even cry. I told him he was brave, like his dad".
"I’m scared sometimes, Dean. i wish you were here. I wish you’d write back. please".
You watched Dean’s face go still. Every muscle in his cheek jumped, his eyes blinking fast, holding back tears or rage or maybe both. He didn’t look up, just kept scrolling, knuckles white. The silence dragged out so long you thought you’d have to break it, but he finally spoke, voice cracking in a way you’d never heard from him.
“I never… I never got any of these”, Dean said, eyes still fixed on your words, voice strangled. “I swear to God, Y/N. John—my dad—he, uh, he took my phone. Said I was distracted. Said I needed to focus…”. His voice trailed off, heavy and lost.
You took a shaky breath, feeling the old scars tug at you, but you kept your voice gentle as you started to fill in the pieces of your story, the pieces Dean had never gotten to hear. The playground was quiet, the late afternoon sun slipping lower, the whole world holding its breath as you spoke.
“I tried to tell them, Dean. My mom… she lost it when she found out. She said I was ruining everything, that you were just some stray who left me with nothing but trouble. She said she’d kick me out unless I… unless I got rid of him”. You looked down at Timothy, your fingers brushing his cheek, watching the rise and fall of his breathing. “I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. So… I left”. Dean’s jaw clenched, and you could see the muscle twitch there, the storm of guilt and anger brewing behind his eyes. “My dad sent some money, but he wouldn’t see me. I crashed with a friend. Found a job, somehow. Jane, she was the nurse who helped me in the ER. She took us in when I couldn’t do it alone”. You smiled a little, the memory softening the sharp edges for just a second. “If it wasn’t for her, I don’t know what would’ve happened. But I did it. We did it”.
Dean stared at you like he was seeing you for the first time, every bit of bravado stripped away. “I’m so sorry”, he said, voice broken. “I should’ve been there. You were seventeen, Y/N. Seventeen. You did everything alone because of me. Because my dad… because I left. God, I’m so—”. You squeezed his hand tight, interrupting the spiral before it could swallow him. You leaned in, forcing him to meet your eyes. “Dean, stop. Please. I’m not mad. I never was. I was scared. I was heartbroken. But I was never mad at you”.
He shook his head, still lost in the self-loathing you knew all too well. “How could you not be? I would be. You had every right to be”. You squeezed again, stubborn, soft, refusing to let him drown. “Because I loved you. Because I knew you. And I knew, deep down, I always knew, it wasn’t your fault. None of it was”. You blinked back tears, letting the truth steady you. “You were just a kid, too”.
Dean looked away, blinking hard, his gaze drifting to Timothy’s sleeping form curled trustingly against your chest. The breeze rustled the grass, and for a moment, he seemed barely able to breathe.
“I thought we were always careful”, he murmured, almost to himself. Soft, bewildered, still half in disbelief. There was a crooked, regretful smile on his lips, sad and a little lost.
You let out a shaky breath, your thumb tracing circles on Timothy’s tiny shoulder. “We were careful, Dean. We were just… young. Sometimes life doesn’t care how careful you are”.
He nodded, jaw working as he tried to swallow everything. "Yeah. Guess life never gave either of us much of a break”. He watched Timothy’s chest rise and fall, eyes glassy. “But look at him. Look at you. You did everything I never could’ve done”.
You smiled, tired but true. “I just kept going. Because I had to. Because I wanted to. Because I loved him the second I knew he was real. I loved you, too. Even when it hurt”.
Dean’s hand tightened in yours, almost desperate. “I wish I could take it all back, Y/N. Every second you were alone. Every time I wasn’t here”.
You squeezed his hand, blinking away tears. “We can’t go back, Dean. But we can start again. If you want to. If you’re ready”.
Dean nodded, wiping at his eyes with the heel of his hand, letting himself believe, just for a heartbeat, that maybe he was allowed this. “I want to. More than anything. I want to be here. For both of you”.
-
Three months later, everything had changed. Dean had kept his promise. Whenever a case finished, whenever he could steal a day (sometimes two, sometimes a miraculous three), he was at your door before the sun had burned the dew off the grass. Sam came too, sometimes, tall and awkward and so much gentler than you remembered, bringing stories about haunted lighthouses and Bigfoot sightings that made Timothy’s eyes go wide.
You’d found a rhythm. Awkward and messy, but somehow exactly right. Dean would text you when he was close, and you’d always leave the porch light on, no matter the hour. He never arrived empty-handed: sometimes it was pie, sometimes a tiny Impala for Timothy, sometimes your favorite chips.
Timothy had taken to calling Dean “Dad” like it was the most natural thing in the world. You and Dean had told him the truth early, sitting cross-legged on the living room carpet one rainy evening, the three of you surrounded by Timothy’s towers of toy cars and half-eaten animal crackers. You’d been scared, not of Timothy’s questions, but of all the answers you didn’t have. Dean had taken your hand in his, voice quiet but steady: “I missed a lot, Tim, but I’m here now. And I want to be your dad. If you want that too”.
Timothy had blinked at him, then at you, then back again. He’d shrugged in that wise, four-year-old way that said the world could be simple, if only grown-ups let it. “You already are”, he’d said, and thrown himself into Dean’s arms.
Since then, the three of you had fallen into habits that felt impossibly precious: Timothy brushing his teeth beside Dean at night, insisting on “cool hair” gel in the mornings when Dean was there. Dean fixing your wobbly kitchen chair, taking out the trash, filling the house with music and laughter and the scent of engine grease. Sam would show up with takeout or books or just to sit quietly, listening to Timothy talk about dinosaurs and cars until Dean teased him for being a sap.
At night, when Timothy was asleep, you and Dean would sit on the porch, the world hushed around you, shoulders touching. Sometimes you talked about the future. About safer hunts, about moving closer, about what it might mean to really, finally be a family. Sometimes you just held hands in the quiet, letting hope grow slow and stubborn in the dark.
You and Dean had also become experts at dancing around things. Like big feelings, heavy words and even your own history. For three months, you’d shared late-night talks, laughter in the kitchen, sleepy mornings with Timothy squeezed between you on the couch, his little hand curled in Dean’s. There were moments—a brush of your fingers as you handed Dean his coffee, his palm warm on the small of your back as you reached for a pot in the cupboard, your head on his shoulder when exhaustion threatened to pull you under—but nothing more. Not yet.
Tonight, though, the world felt suspended. Timothy was out cold in his room, sprawled sideways in a tangle of blankets and toy cars, the baby monitor hissing quietly from the kitchen. You and Dean sat side by side on the couch, a movie playing low on the TV, a dumb teen flick you’d both half-mocked, half-admitted you’d seen before.
Then a cheerleader appeared on the screen, flipping her ponytail, laughing that sugar-sweet laugh you’d heard a hundred times in the locker room. It knocked something loose, a piece of your shared past tumbling between you and settling in the silence.
Dean snorted softly. “That was you, huh? Miss All-American, always with a bow in your hair. Thought you’d never even look at a guy like me”.
You glanced at him, that old, easy smile finding you again. “You mean the bad boy who only showed up for half the semester, got detention on day two, and still managed to ace every test?”.
He grinned, that familiar cocky tilt in his smile. “Hey, the principal loved me. Deep down”.
You rolled your eyes. “Deep, deep down, maybe”. The smile faded into something softer. “You know, I never told you this, but I was terrified of you. Not because of your reputation. Just… you saw me. Not the cheerleader. Not the ‘good girl’. Just… me”.
Dean went quiet, his gaze steady on your face, all teasing gone. “You were the first person who ever really did the same for me”.
The quiet between you crackled, old memories blooming with new electricity. Dean’s knee pressed a little firmer against yours, his hand finding its way to your thigh, heavy and careful, thumb tracing lazy circles through your jeans. The TV faded into a distant background hum, the flicker of cheerleader pom-poms replaced by the rush of your pulse in your ears.
You turned to him fully, knees brushing, breath mingling. Dean searched your face like he was still looking for permission, for reassurance that this, whatever you were about to become again, was real and wanted. You answered with a small nod, your eyes shining in the low light.
Dean leaned in, so slow you could feel the anticipation blooming along your skin, his lips hovering a whisper above yours. “You sure?”, he asked, voice rough, almost reverent.
You barely managed a “Yeah”, before he closed the gap. Tentative, tasting, a question and an answer all at once. His hand slid to your jaw, cradling you like you were something breakable and precious. You melted into him, hands curling into his t-shirt, pulling him closer, chasing the sweetness you’d missed for years.
Then something in both of you broke open, the hunger and relief of lost time spilling into the kiss. Dean pressed you back against the couch, mouths opening, breaths quickening, his fingers threading into your hair. Your legs tangled with his, your heart hammering against his chest as he deepened the kiss, tasting like memory and want and the sharp, dizzy hope of starting over.
Dean’s mouth moved against yours with a deliberate patience, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips, coaxing you open. You tasted the faint bitterness of beer on him, mixed with his scent wrapping around you.
His hand in your hair tightened just a fraction, not pulling but holding, grounding you as his other palm slid under your shirt, calluses rough against the soft skin of your waist. A shiver raced up your spine, electric and unfamiliar after so long alone. Four and a half years. You’d touched no one, let no one touch you. Dean had been your first, your only, and the ghost of that intimacy lingered in every hesitant breath you took now.
He broke the kiss just enough to breathe, his forehead pressing to yours, green eyes dark and stormy in the dim light. “Missed this”, he murmured. His thumb brushed your cheek, wiping away a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. “Missed you so damn much”.
You nodded, throat tight, pulling him back in. Your hands roamed his back, feeling the play of muscles under his shirt, the warmth of his skin seeping through the fabric. He shifted, guiding you down onto the couch cushions with a gentleness that belied the urgency in his touch.
Dean’s lips trailed down your jaw, nipping softly at the sensitive spot just below your ear, his breath hot and uneven. Your hands found the hem of his shirt, tugging it up and over his head in one fluid motion, revealing the familiar expanse of his chest. You ran your palms over him, feeling the rapid thud of his heart, the slight tremor in his breath as he watched you, eyes hooded with want and something deeper, more broken.
“Dean…”. Your voice cracked, fingers tracing an old scar along his ribs, one you didn’t recognize. How many close calls? How many nights had he come home to someone else, or no one at all? The thought of it clawed at you, but it only fueled the fire, making you pull him down for another kiss, fierce and needy.
He groaned into your mouth, the sound low and raw, as he finally popped the button on your jeans, easing the zipper down with agonizing slowness. His hand slipped inside, fingers brushing over the thin fabric of your underwear, the heat of him making you gasp. “Shit, you’re so…”. He trailed off, pressing his palm flat against you, the pressure just enough to send sparks through your core. Wetness pooled there, your body remembering him even as your mind wrestled with the years apart.
You bucked against his hand instinctively, seeking more, but he held back, teasing with light strokes that built the ache into something almost painful. His mouth found your neck again, sucking gently, leaving marks that would bloom tomorrow.
When you were bare from the waist down, he paused, pulling back to look at you. His gaze was reverent, almost pained, like he was memorizing every inch. “You’re beautiful”, he said, voice thick with emotion. “Always were".
Tears pricked your eyes again, but you blinked them away, reaching for his belt instead. Your fingers fumbled, nerves and desire warring, but he covered your hand with his, helping you undo it. Together, you pushed his jeans down, freeing him.
Dean positioned himself carefully, one hand bracing on the couch arm, the other guiding himself to your entrance. He nudged forward slowly.
"Shit, condom", you whispered, a little nervous laugh bubbling up with a moan as the tip of him pressed against you, that initial stretch sending a jolt through your core. The words tumbled out half-formed, breathless and edged with panic, your hand flying to his chest to pause him.
How could you not think about it? Upstairs, in the quiet of his room, your son slept, the boy you’d made with Dean all those years ago, an accident born from a night much like this, fueled by desperation and love
Dean’s eyes widened for a split second, surprise flickering through the haze of desire, but he froze immediately, his body taut above yours. He was so close, heat radiating from where you were almost joined, the air thick with the scent of arousal and the faint, lingering trace of his cologne. “Right… shit”. he muttered, a rueful chuckle escaping him as he pulled back just enough, though his hand stayed on your hip, thumb stroking soothing circles into your skin.
“Hang on, sweetheart. I’ve got one… somewhere”. His voice was low, gravelly with restraint, the words vibrating through you as he shifted his weight, reaching awkwardly for his discarded jeans on the floor. The couch leather stuck slightly to your bare skin as you moved with him, a soft creak echoing in the dim room, the TV’s muted glow casting shadows across his freckled shoulders. You watched him fumble in the pocket, muscles flexing under scarred skin, and the sight stirred that familiar ache. Jealousy twisting anew at the thought of how many times he’d done this routine with others, casual and practiced, while you’d raised your son alone, nights stretching empty and untouched.
He found it, tearing the foil with his teeth in a move that was pure Dean, efficient and a little rough around the edges. His eyes met yours again as he rolled it on, slow and deliberate, the latex snapping softly in the quiet. There was no rush now, just a heavy pause filled with unspoken things: the son upstairs who looked so much like him, with the same mischievous grin and stubborn streak; the years you’d spent wondering if Dean even thought about you both during his flings; the fragile hope that this time, maybe, it could be different.
“You okay?”, he asked, voice softer now, laced with concern as he settled back between your thighs, his hand cupping your cheek.
You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the stubble rasp under your touch. “Yeah… just… memories”, you admitted, the words barely a whisper, but he understood. Of course he did. His expression cracked open a fraction, regret etching deeper lines around his eyes, and he kissed you then. Slow and deep, like an apology poured into every slide of his lips.
With a careful nudge, he entered you again, inch by inch, the barrier of the condom doing nothing to dull the intensity of the stretch, the fullness that made your breath hitch and your nails dig into his back.
Everything was so intense: the soft grunt he made low in his throat, a sound you’d dreamed of but never heard from anyone else; the way his hand slid down to grip your thigh, hitching your leg higher around his waist, opening you further; the cool air on your exposed skin contrasting with the burn where you joined.
You gasped as he hit that spot inside, stars bursting behind your eyelids, but tears welled too from the overwhelming sensation, from the what-ifs of your shared past, from the fear that this might be another fleeting moment before he vanished again, leaving you with echoes and a child who asked too many questions about his dad.
Dean’s pace faltered for a heartbeat, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he buried himself deeper, holding there like he needed the anchor. “God, I should’ve… we should’ve…”, he murmured against your neck, words fragmented, heavy with the weight of accidental miracles and lost time. His breath came in hot puffs, lips brushing your pulse point, sucking lightly as if to mark you as his once more.
You arched into him, meeting his thrusts, the couch protesting with each shift, the world narrowing to the slick slide, the building pressure, the tangle of limbs and regrets, until you shattered around him, a cry muffled against his shoulder, waves crashing through you in shuddering release.
He followed soon after, hips stuttering as he thrust deep one final time. His body tensed, then went slack against yours, weight pinning you in the best way.
The rest of the night unfolded in a rush. Like you’d both been starving, rationing touch for years, and now you couldn’t get enough. After the first time on the couch, Dean gathered you in his arms and carried you quietly to your bedroom, careful not to wake Timothy. He laid you on the bed as if you were something breakable, then proceeded to break you open in all the best ways.
There were no secrets left, no boundaries untested. You learned each other all over again, a little older, a little bruised, a lot more grateful. Dean moved above you, slow and deep, his hands everywhere. You touched him just as greedily, relearning the map of his back, the hard muscle under new scars, the tremble in his thighs when you whispered you loved him.
Sometimes you broke down into laughter, muffled by his neck, as you fumbled with the newness of it all. At the awkward tangle of limbs, the way your bodies fit together just a little differently now. Sometimes you just clung to each other in the dark, kissing slow, quiet apologies and promises into the spaces where your lives had gone wrong.
And sometimes, in the in-between, the weight of everything you’d lost came rushing back. You found yourself crying for no reason, tears slipping down your cheeks as you held him close, whispering his name. Dean kissed them away, rough thumbs gentle on your face, his own eyes bright with emotion. “I’m here”, he’d promise, voice shaky. “I’m not leaving. Not this time”.
The night stretched on in waves: desperate, hungry, then lazy and sweet. You found a rhythm, building each other up, letting go, collapsing together. In the final round, you lay half across his chest, skin damp and flushed, your breathing slowing as he stroked your back in lazy, contented circles.
The house was quiet except for the hush of the fan and the softest snores from down the hall. Dean’s heart beat steady beneath your ear, his hand splayed warm across your back. You traced circles on his chest, pressing a kiss to the hollow at his throat. “I never stopped loving you”, you whispered, sleep pulling at the edges of your mind.
Dean tightened his arm around you, kissing your hair, his voice a soft vow. “Me neither. Never again, sweetheart. I’m home”.
-
You woke to the soft warmth of Dean’s hand brushing over your waist, the early morning sun spilling gold through the curtains. For a moment, you stayed still, letting yourself believe in this quiet, in the way he watched you, green eyes sleepy and soft, lips curled in a lazy half-smile that was just for you.
Dean traced gentle patterns over your hip, his touch reverent, almost shy, like last night had reset something inside both of you. “Hey”, he whispered, voice scratchy with sleep and tenderness. He kissed your forehead, then the tip of your nose, then your mouth. Slow and unhurried, and with a thousand unspoken words in every press of his lips.
You smiled into the kiss, fingers sliding up to tangle in his hair. He pulled back just enough to study you, his thumb stroking your cheek. “You okay?”, he murmured, genuine worry threading through the sweetness, as if you might disappear if he blinked.
“I’m perfect”, you breathed, the honesty of it making your chest ache. “Are you?”.
He grinned, brushing his nose against yours. “Never better”.
He started kissing you again, slow and careful, exploring you all over, like it was your first time all over again. He took his time, savoring the way your body moved under his, the way your breath hitched with every touch, every whispered “I love you”. You felt brand new, cherished, wanted. Like everything had finally fallen into place.
Then, just as his mouth was on your shoulder and your arms were tight around his back, the bedroom door crashed open with a bang.
“Mommy! Dad! I’m hungry!”.
You both froze, eyes wide, as Timothy barreled into the room, his favorite dinosaur pajamas askew, hair wild, dragging his blanket in one hand and clutching a toy car in the other. His eyes went straight to the bed, to the tangle of sheets and bodies, and for one long second you and Dean just stared, paralyzed and very, very naked.
Dean recovered first, yanking the comforter up to his chin in a comically desperate move, shielding both of you as best he could. “Hey, buddy!”, he croaked, his voice about an octave higher than usual. “Uh, can you, uh, give us just one minute?”.
Timothy blinked, totally unfazed. “But I’m really hungry. And my car wants pancakes. With chocolate stars”.
You bit your lip, half laughing, half mortified, your face burning as you tried to tug the covers even higher. “Two minutes, Tim. Promise. We’ll be right out”.
Timothy huffed, but he grinned, clearly thrilled that both his parents were here and together. “Okay! But hurry. I’ll count!”. He turned and padded out, singing something under his breath, leaving the door wide open behind him.
Dean looked at you, grinning despite himself, hair sticking up, cheeks flushed. “Well. That’s one way to start the morning”.
You laughed, covering your face with your hands. “Guess we’re not as sneaky as we thought”.
Dean leaned in, kissed your forehead, and murmured, “Doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t trade this for anything”.
Evenutally, you and Dean scrambled into clothes, giggling, tripping over laundry, bumping shoulders like you were seventeen all over again. When you reached the kitchen, Timothy was waiting, legs swinging from his chair, toy car parked carefully beside his empty plate. He looked up at both of you, eyes shining with that familiar Winchester stubbornness and hope.
Dean slid easily into the space beside him, pulling Timothy into his lap. “So, champ—pancakes with chocolate stars, huh?”.
“Two stacks!”, Timothy declared, and you grinned, already starting with the batter and listening to Dean’s easy laughter fill the kitchen, Timothy’s running commentary on car engines and superhero cereal and every small thing that made up your mornings now.
You caught Dean watching you while you flipped the pancakes, his eyes lingering not just with want, but something deeper, steadier. You saw the promise in his gaze, all the years you’d both lost folding into this simple, bright new moment.
After breakfast, Dean helped you clean up. Later, he fixed Timothy’s wobbly bike while you watched from the step.
That night, with Timothy asleep and the apartment washed in the soft hush of the streetlights outside, you curled into Dean’s side on the couch. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close, his chin pressed to your hair. “I never thought I’d get this”, he murmured quietly, voice rough with love. “A home. You. Him. Us”.
You smiled, tears warm but happy. “You’re here. That’s all I ever wanted. All I ever needed”.
He kissed you slow and sweet, laughter caught in the middle, and you let yourself believe, finally, truly, that the worst was behind you. That this messy, beautiful family was yours to keep.
In the dark, you whispered your thanks to him. For coming back. For choosing you. For being home. And for the first time in your life, you believed in happy endings. Because you’d made one, together.
Summary- Dean and Y/N are having problems. Dean has been letting his mind get the better of him and taking it out on Y/N. But has she had all she can take? Will she stay, or will Dean's behavior make her give it all up and walk away?
A/N- Hey guys. I know I've been gone for a long time, but between going back to school and trying to manage life, I had very little time. I had this idea pop into my head days ago, and I had to finally write it down. I hope you all enjoy!
It never fails. When the slightest bit of danger comes her way, Dean seems to lose all control. Control of his thinking, anger, and his mouth. That’s the reason she’s sitting across the library from him now. Her feelings were hurt yet again. The last few hunts, he’d picked a fight any time she’d gotten anywhere in the vicinity of trouble, lashed out at her, screaming and asking her what the hell she thought she was doing. She figured that with so much of this behavior lately, she’d be used to it by now. But how can you be used to being berated by the man you love?
Dean knows that he shouldn’t say the things he says, but his self-control is nonexistent when it comes to her well-being. He knows she was a hunter before they met, before he asked her to be his, but that doesn’t seem to matter. He’s drowning in his dreams. The nightmares that he can’t seem to shake are the cause of his behavior, a nightly repeat of watching her die in his arms. The thought of losing her after the hell he put himself through trying not to want her is just too much. All the inner turmoil of telling himself that she deserved so much better, deserved everything that he’d never be able to give her, deserved to be loved by a man that wasn’t such a mess, such a disaster.
But if he could only read her mind and know just how she saw him. He was her everything. Everything she had wanted since the day those green eyes looked into hers. That’s all it had taken, and she was gone. But now, sitting at the farthest seat away from him she could get, watching him drown himself in whiskey once again, her thoughts were now wondering if it was all worth it. She knows how he thinks, that his words come from fear, but it’s still hard not to blame him. Hard not to take what he says to heart, every hurtful word chipping away at the love she has for him.
The more she watches him, the more she wonders if he’s as damned as he seems. Would her whole world cave in around her if she kept trying to save him? Can she hold on through more tears, trying to find more laughter, more love? She just doesn’t know anymore. What is he even after at this point? Does he want her to leave, want her to throw it all down and walk away? That's how it seems. But is that what she wants? To throw away the years spent clawing, scraping, and fighting to stay together. Maybe. Maybe that’s what she’ll have to do if things don’t change. Her heart and soul are tired, so very tired, of the fight, the struggle to love a man that she isn’t even sure loves her back.
Dean can see her across the library, her brows creased in deep thought. The creases that he is usually trying to kiss away when she gets in her head, but this time, he knows it’s his fault. He’s the reason for her hurt, her pain, and it kills him. But what can he do now? The words have been said, and he can’t take them back. He takes another drink of whiskey, squinting his eyes at the burn, and to keep the tears that are wanting to form away. But no one needs to know that. It hurts him to his soul to know he’s causing her any bit of pain, but he can’t seem to stop himself. He thinks that maybe he should just let her go. But that thought is dismissed as quickly as it came to his mind. Now that he’d allowed himself to have her, he can’t lose her. He just can’t. He’s lost almost everyone else he ever loved, but losing her would be his end. He can’t see a life on this planet without her in it. He knows he needs to tell her what he’s thinking, but he doesn’t know if he can find the words, so he takes another drink, wishing he wasn’t such a hard man to be with, to love, because damn it if he doesn’t love her more than he’d ever be able to express, and that’s the problem. He can never seem to express what he’s feeling. Maybe yet another reason he should let her go, but he’s too damn selfish for that, and he knows it.
She’s still watching him drink himself stupid, something else he’s been doing lately. Dean always drank, but it’s been at extremes the last few weeks. They would fight, he would drink, and she would find him passed out in their room later when she would go in wanting to talk to him. So, she’s been holding all this in, all the hurt, the pain, the anger. But, she doesn’t know how much longer she can do it. She needs to know where he stands. Does he still even want her? Or the question she’s scared to know the answer to. Does he or has he ever loved her? With that thought, a tear escaped, rolling down her cheek. She wants him, as much as he has hurt her lately, she still loves the man more than she can bear.
She knows what kind of man he is, and this isn’t the usual for him. Something is going on, but he won’t let her in, let her know what’s going on in that beautiful head of his. And, my God, is he beautiful, his mind, body, and soul. That’s what has her holding on, knowing that the man she fell in love with is there, buried deep under whatever he’s masking with his outbursts.
She wished he could see what she sees. He’s strong, even stronger than he believes. He’s a man who’s seen more tragedy than a soul should see or deserves. But still manages to love with his whole being, absolutely unconditional. The way he loves Sam, his mom, his dad, Bobby, and everyone else he considers family is beautiful. Just as beautiful as he is. But she wonders if he loves her in that way. If you had asked her a few weeks ago, she would’ve said yes. Yes, he loves her. But now, she just doesn’t know. Maybe all those nights in his arms, the way he would look at her, maybe all that was wishful thinking. Because if he loved her, would he be treating her this way? Yet another tear rolls down her cheek as her mind continues to race, pondering whether she can take anymore, or whether she’s going to leave.
Dean chances to look her way again, and he sees it, the tear rolling down her face, and that’s it, that’s all he can take. He has to try and fix this, let her know he’s sorry, convince her to stay, because by the look in her eyes right now, she’s already out the door, and he knows that his life is over if that happens. He sets his glass down, stands, and walks over to the end of the table where she sits. He pulls up a chair in front of her, their knees touching. He reaches out, his thumb stretching to wipe away the tears, but as she does, she flinches away. His heart at that moment shatters. He could swear he could audibly hear it breaking into pieces. Maybe he’s too late, perhaps he’s done more damage than he can repair now. And that thought scares the shit out of him. He drops his hand to his lap, taking a deep breath before he speaks.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered as he exhaled, hoping she would forgive him.
“I know.” That’s all she said, looking past him, not daring to look him in the eye. She can’t. Not right now.
“Baby,” he sighed, trying again to reach out for her, taking her hand. Luckily, she didn’t flinch away from him this time, “I mean it. I’m so very sorry. I never wanted to hurt you.”
“If you didn’t want to hurt me, Dean, this wouldn’t be a repeatable behavior.”
It’s him who flicnched this time. She still wouldn’t look at him, and it’s driving him crazy. He wants her to know that he’s truly sorry, truly regrets how he’s been acting. But how can he convince her if she won’t even look at him?
“Sweeheart, can you look at me?” he asked, actually on the verge of begging.
“I’d rather not,” she replied, trying to keep her emotions at bay. It’s so much harder than she thought it would be now that he’s sitting here right in front of her.
“Please,” he pleads, “Can I see those gorgeous eyes?”
Another tear. Damn it. This isn’t going well, and he knows that he has to do something, but what? He reaches to wipe away the tear, and she lets him. At least that’s some progress from moments ago. He cupped her face in his palm, caressing her cheek with his thumb. She looks at him then, and he can clearly see the pain and hurt in the eyes that usually look at him with so much love and adoration. He really has messed up this time.
“Y/N, I don’t know what else to say other than I’m sorry. I know I’ve not treated you right, and I can’t take it back, but I can try and make it up to you.”
“Dean,” she tried to speak, her voice cracked with the emotions she’s trying to hold back, “I don’t know if you can this time.”
“Please don’t say that, baby. Don’t push me away.”
“Don’t push you away?! Seriously? That’s a bit hypocritical, don’t ya think?!” she scoffs, the anger finally making its way to the surface, “That’s all you’ve done is push me away, hurt me, and break my heart, and you dare to say that to me?”
It’s his turn to cry, the tears he’s been trying to keep at bay now making their way down his face. What a fucking tragedy. The one person he never wanted to lose, now basically has one foot out the door, and it’s his fault.
“You’re right. I have pushed you away, and I take full responsibility for it. I’m scared, Y/N,” he finally admits, his voice quivering as he tries to express what he prays will change her mind.
Her heart starts to race. That’s the most honest he’d been with her in a long time, and she can feel her resolve slowly melting away. She can’t resist, reaching out to touch his face, “Scared? What are you scared of, Dean?”
“Losing you,” he whispered, leaning into her palm. Her touch always seemed to calm his raging mind, and now was no different.
“What makes you think I was going anywhere? I’ve never said or done anything to make you think I was leaving, have I? Well, not until you started pushing me away, taking out your frustrations on me. I still don’t know what I did to deserve that,” she sighed, closing her eyes as the memories of his words washed over her again.
“You didn’t do anything.”
“Then make me understand,” she pleaded. “If I didn’t make you think I was leaving, why? Why, Dean? What was all the anger, hurtful words, and fighting for?”
“I…I…,” he doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t want to admit that it was all over his dreams, but does he really have a choice? Not without her walking out the door and taking his whole world with her, “Nightmares. I kept having nightmares, and they all ended the same way. You're dying in my arms. And I can’t do it, sweetheart. I can’t lose you.”
“Dean, they're just dreams. I know they can be terrifying, but were they worth making me leave? Were they worth ruining what he had?”
“Had?” he choked. Oh no, she’s going to leave, “Please, please don’t say that. It’s what he have not had, right?”
“I don’t know, Dean. I just don’t know anymore. You really hurt me, made me question if you ever really cared. I can’t stay not knowing when the next time will be, when will you hurt me again, when will you lash out and break my heart. I don’t ask for much from you, I never have. But I don’t deserve that.”
He can’t accept what he’s hearing, and she can’t go. She can’t. He slips from the chair, dropping to his knees between her legs, lying his head in her lap, his silent plea to stay, to not walk out and leave him.
“Dean,” her voice is shaking from trying not to burst out in tears. She looks down as he looks up at her, and he looks so broken. It makes her heart ache. Why couldn’t he talk to her before now, before he had already hurt her and made her question if their relationship was salvageable?
“Please,” he begged, his arms wrapping around her waist as his head lay on her thighs. Normally, this position wasn’t him begging for her to stay, but a happy memory. Not anymore. He only knows one more thing to say. Hopefully, it will make her stay, because he means it, means it with all of his being, “I love you, Y/N.”
She’s frozen. Did she just hear what she thought? Did he really just say he loved her? Oh, how she’s longed to hear those words from him, but is he serious? Or is he just saying it because he doesn’t want her to leave?
“Baby, I mean it. I love you. I know I should’ve told you before now, but I was a coward. I’m always afraid that if I said it out loud, you’d be taken from me. Everyone I love is always taken away from me at some point. They always leave one way or another, and I couldn’t bear the thought of you being one of them. So, please, I’m begging you, don’t leave me. Stay. And let me spend the rest of my life making it up to you for being such an asshole. Please?”
She can’t hold it back anymore. Her tears flow as she breaks out into a sob. She loves this man more than it should be possible, more than she believed anyone could love another person. This absolutely beautiful man, bearing his soul out to her, how can she deny that?
“O…o…okay,” she agreed through choked sobs.
“Really?” he asked with hesitation, sitting up to wipe away her tears, “You’re staying?”
“I’m staying. I love you, too, Dean. So damn much,” she cried as he pulled her down to sit in his lap on the floor.
He just held her, let her cry into his neck, as he cried into her hair. No words were said for a long while, as they both held on to each other, enjoying the feeling of being in each other's arms. It had been too long since they had held each other, and neither one wanted to break the sense of peace and happiness of the moment. But after a few more minutes, Dean speaks, but not before kissing her cheeks, her nose, her forehead, and then finally her lips, as his hands held her face.
“Y/N, I’m sorry. I promise to never hurt you like that again. I can’t promise I’ll never hurt your feelings or make you angry. Still, I swear to never do it intentionally. I love you,” he said, kissing her softly again, before asking her what he felt was a very important question, “So, can you forgive me? Can you love me even though I’m such a disaster?”
Her smile made his heart race. Now realizing how long it had been since he had seen it. And right then, he made a vow to himself to make her smile every day. No matter what. He would always find a way to make her happy.
“Of course, I forgive you. I love you, Dean, so much. And you may be a disaster, but what a beautiful disaster you are,” she laughed, the sound music to his ears. “But our whole lives are a disaster.”
And he kept his promise. He made sure to make her smile every day. Most days, it was many times. Of course, they had their bad days. Every relationship does. But he made a point of showing her how much he loved her, no matter what was going on in their world. And she was partially right, their lives were a disaster, but what a beautiful disaster it was.
Have a fic inspired by one of my favorite songs!! With delicious angst, Dean is dysfunctional in this relationship and chooses to push away rather than risk losing her, which I think is on-brand for him.
Just something cute and fluffy. Established relationship.
Dean x OCF reader/you
No warnings here, no insuations. Just fluffy cuteness. I hope you guys like it. I wrote and edited it this morning while having coffee in just a couple hours, since it invaded my dreams last night in the best way.
Memories are indented. Thoughts are in italics.
Word Count: 2583
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The two of you were cuddling, your shared room dark. He’d just gotten back from a hunt and, after showering, had crawled into bed behind you. You weren’t completely asleep, trying to stay awake and wait for him. So when you felt the bed dip and the warmth of his body, you snuggled your back against his chest as his arm slipped over your waist.
Dean nuzzled into your hair, inhaling deeply, trying to find that peace you always brought to him. The way your body fit against his was where it always started. Then it was your scent as he closed his eyes and held you close. He knew you’d ask. You always did after the content hum left his lips.
“Why me?” your words were always a whisper because you still couldn’t understand it. But then again, Dean was never good with words.
He didn’t know how to tell you that holding you close like this brought peace to his soul in a way he never thought was possible.
He didn’t know how to tell you that your laughter was like a symphony that quieted his thoughts when nothing else did.
He didn’t know how to tell you that your smile brightened the room around you and took away the darkness he always felt.
He didn’t know how to tell you that when you would just sit and listen to him talk about how badly a hunt had gone while he stared at the floor said more than words ever could.
He didn’t know how to tell you that the moment his lips touched yours, the entire world melted away, leaving him with just you and how you made him feel.
He didn’t know how to tell you that when you were doing research, your focus completely on the book in front of you, that the way a few strands of hair had fallen over one side of your face made his breath hitch in his chest and the moment freeze and everything melted away.
He didn’t know how to tell you that when you’d bring him something to eat when he had put off eating for most of the day that the love he saw in your eyes made him realize how much you truly loved him and all he wanted to do was say those three little words to you, but couldn’t.
He didn’t know how to tell you that when you’d sing along to the radio and his favorite songs, you sounded like an angel, and for a few moments, he forgot about everything else but your voice.
He didn’t know how to tell you that just you being in his life brought joy back into his heart, and he found himself finding reasons to be silly with you, like a ticklefest, when he noticed a frown on your lips.
He didn’t know how to tell you that when he got to wake up with you in his arms, he didn’t feel like a hunter or like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. He felt like, in that moment, he had a normal, apple pie life, even if it never lasted.
He didn’t know how to tell you that when he would catch you baking, especially pie, he wished his mother was there, that she could have met you cause he knew she would have loved you as much as he did.
He didn’t know how to tell you that he loved hearing you squeal or squeak when he would surprise you, how it always made him smile when you pretended to be mad at him, but the look of love and joy in your eyes always gave you away.
He didn’t know how to tell you that when you didn’t go with him and Sam on a case, he missed everything about you, and he was always more on edge, and he always had nightmares of losing you to some monster before he could make it back to you.
There was so much he never knew how to tell you, so he had done his best to show you because it all sounded stupid in his head, and he couldn’t bring himself to speak any of the words he tried to put to the emotions you made him feel. So, he told you the thing he always did when you asked, “Why you.” It was because you were you, and he loved all of you.
A quiet sigh left his lips, but he didn’t move away from you. For a few moments, he tried to think of how to word his emotions, but the words never seemed right. “Because you’re you,” he whispered back as his mind wandered.
He didn’t know how to tell you that when you always split the last piece of bacon with him, he remembered how you helped change his perspective on things.
The two of you had been sitting in the kitchen in the bunker, having just finished the breakfast he had cooked. There was one slice of bacon left on the plate. Dean didn’t know how to tell you he loved you. Those were words he just couldn’t manage to ever say out loud. So, instead, he picked up the slice of bacon and handed it to you, telling you that you could have it because he knew how much you loved bacon.
It was your gentle chuckle as you took the bacon that made him pause and look at you, a little confused. He watched as you broke the bacon in half, “I never want to take more than you give,” you whispered, then put one of the halves in your mouth. Instead of handing that other half to Dean, you leaned across the table and fed it to him, nothing but love and adoration in your eyes. His breath had hitched in his chest. “You love bacon as much as I do. I’ll always share with you. I never want you to feel like I take more than I give,” you had told him softly. And from that moment on, he began trying the same thing with you.
“Where are your thoughts?” you asked him sleepily, feeling how he had tensed up a little as he held you.
He let out a quiet chuckle because you always seemed to know. “In my head,” he mumbled, nuzzling against your neck again and letting out a content sigh.
“Where are you?” you asked, this time softer.
“With you,” he whispered, feeling how just telling you that always made the tension ease out of him, everywhere.
He wanted to tell you that it was simple questions like that that had helped him over the years learn that he wasn’t alone, that he didn’t have to face the things not only in his head but also in life, alone.
But Dean had never been good with sharing the things he went through, and you had never pushed. Just like now. He knew you knew he was tense from the hunt, but you hadn’t even asked him how it went. You never had to ask. You just had found ways to pull his mind into the now. He smiled a little, remembering back to the first fight between the two of you, before he’d ever even asked you to be with him, let alone wanted to admit that you had wormed your way into his heart.
It had been after a hunt. Sam had already gone to his room, knowing what was coming, but Dean had followed you to yours, slamming the door behind him. His eyes were on your blood-stained shirt. Your wounds had already healed, but that wasn’t the point, not for Dean. You had gotten injured, saving him. He could tell you were pissed, but he didn’t care. The tension and silence in the car ride back to the motel had only given him time to think about what he was going to say to you instead of what he wanted to say.
You turned to look at him, a glare in your eyes as you crossed your arms, standing confidently across the small room. Dean didn’t care. To him, he wasn’t worth you getting hurt. “What you did was reckless,” he growled, but you didn’t even blink, only pushing his anger further. “You didn’t follow the plan, and you got hurt!”
You just raised an eyebrow, a knowing smirk toyed at your lips. He didn’t like that look. “Yes. It was reckless. Your plan was flawed, but you refuse to trust my judgment on things, so I have to improvise.” There was no anger in your words, and for the briefest of moments, he knew you saw the confusion in his eyes before he quickly hid it.
Dean let the anger flare in his eyes again, wanting to make you understand that he wasn’t worth you getting hurt, period. To him, this wasn’t up for debate. He took two steps toward you, crossing the small room, but you didn’t even flinch as your eyes never left his. It was both slightly intimidating, but deep down, it tickled that hope he always pushed away.
He hated himself for the things that spewed from his mouth after that as he looked down at you with utter anger. The fact that it didn’t seem to outwardly affect you only fueled it further. You literally just stood there, your eyes locked onto his, your expression almost neutral, and your arms crossed. It was infuriating him.
You had waited patiently while he went off. He hadn’t said a single nice thing, but that wouldn’t deter you. Nope. You’d spent enough time now around the brothers that you knew Dean’s habits, his patterns. Hell, you had even tested them a few times just to make sure. The moment he was done yelling, you figured it was time to point a few things out.
“First off, you’re a hypocrite,” you began, but your tone was… normal? That puzzled Dean, but only for a split second before he quickly hid it, letting the anger flare in his eyes again. But you didn’t stop there.
“You’re constantly putting yourself in harm's way to keep not only Sam and me safe but strangers too. I know you do it because you care. Dean, you have one of the biggest hearts I’ve ever seen in someone. You don’t chastise Sam when he does the same thing I just did tonight. I know this because I’ve tested it, among other things,” you told him, and he could hear the softness that trickled into your words.
But you didn’t stop there. “You’re going to have to just deal with me doing what I do. I don’t do hypocrisy or double standards. If you don’t want me to do it, then don’t do it yourself, period.” The seriousness with which you said that made him see red, his jaw clenching as his hands balled into fists at his sides, but even that didn’t seem to affect you.
He opened his mouth as he pointed a finger at you, but you kept going. “I’m allowed to put myself in harm’s way for those I care about. Plain and simple. I’m a hunter, Dean, just like you. You want to yell at me because I got hurt, fine. Then, when you get hurt, I’ll stay silent while I tend to your wounds because that’s just how I am. You yelling is your way of showing how you care. When I’m silently patching you or Sam up, that’s how I show I care. I’m not going to yell at you for protecting someone you care about.” There was a finality in your last statement that had Dean wanting so desperately to hate you.
Dean couldn’t even find words to say something that would push you away, and that had pissed him off. You saw through him into the depths of the things he thought he kept hidden. The fact that you would let him yell at you, floored him. To him, he wasn’t worth saving, wasn’t worth protecting, wasn’t worth being cared for, and he damn well wasn’t worth getting hurt for. He wanted to yell at you, but he didn’t have an argument now.
You just looked up at him with those eyes he had tried so hard not to get lost in since he and Sam had asked you to join them. Then there was how relaxed your expression was, like the cruel things he had said hadn’t even affected you. You had effectively taken away the things he could use to keep you at arm's length, the things he would have used to push you away.
It hit him in that moment, and it scared the hell out of him, but all he did was glare down at you, enraged. “This isn’t over,” he told you in a low growl.
“Yes, Dean, it is. You can’t scare me away because I know you’ll never hurt me,” you told him plainly, and the shock in his eyes left just as quickly as it appeared. All he could do was storm out of your room, slamming the door behind him.
The memory brought a small smile to his lips as he pulled you just that much closer. That was the night he realized he loved you and that you loved him, but it took him nearly another three years before he acted on it. The bluntness of your words back then had always shut him up, but it was mostly because of the kindness in your eyes as you spoke them.
You felt him relax further behind you, the warmth of his body and how his arm was draped across you was lulling you off to sleep as a soft smile found your lips. It was these moments where nothing else mattered. There were no monsters, no pressing apocalypse that had to be tended to, and no research left untouched in the library. This moment was a peaceful reprieve from the hardships that came with being a hunter.
As Dean drifted off to sleep, his thoughts were only of you. His last thought was always those three little words he hadn’t been able to say to you, but he showed you in every way he could possibly imagine.
Like when he’d share his pie with you, feeding you pieces while he watched you smile and the light of wherever the two of you were sitting dance off your features.
When he would say something silly just to hear you laugh with that huge smile that reached both your eyes.
He couldn’t tell you that when you would come up and hold him from behind while he was cooking, it instantly took the tension from his shoulders. So, he would hold you while you washed the dishes, hoping his closeness brought you the same feeling.
He couldn’t tell you that you were his home, the place where his soul found peace, and all he ever had to do was look into your eyes or watch you doing some simple task. So, he had vowed that he would do everything he could, every day, to be your Home. Why? Because Dean wasn’t good with words, but he could do actions, and those, those you could see. All he could do was hope that you felt them how he meant them because no matter how badly he wanted to, he couldn’t say those three little words.
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