could u write a drarry oneshot inspired by sweet creature of harry styles? :)
Hello Nonnie! I absolutely can. This is a great suggestion, I love this song for Drarry. I hope you enjoy it. Warnings: injury, drinking, attempted sexual assault that is VERY QUICKLY STOPPED and NOT H/D!!! Thank you to @apr1cots for the beta!
3 Times Harry Brought Draco Home...+1 Time Draco Brought Harry Home
1.
The first time, Harry found him in the cafe near their flat.
He sat down in the chair across from Draco, who glared at him over his cup of tea. "I thought I told you not to follow me."
"I waited three hours. I figured that would be enough time for you to come to your senses, but you didn't come back, so I got worried."
"I can handle myself, thanks."
"I know you can. But you didn't tell me where you went."
Draco's eyes flashed. "That was for a reason, you imbecile."
Harry shook his head. "Flatmates don't do that—disappear for three hours after a fight without saying where they’ve gone."
"I'm an adult. And you're not my father or my boyfriend, so back off."
"No, but I am your friend. And your flatmate. And I don't want to be worried sick for three hours when you fuck off to Merlin knows where because you're feeling pissy!" Harry snapped, letting his anger creep into his voice.
Draco sighed. He took a moment to sip his tea, and then he looked at Harry. "I'll tell you what. If we fight, and I don't return, send an owl, Floo or contact you in some way within six hours, you can send out a bloody search party."
Harry shook his head. “I will give you three hours.”
“Five”
“Three and a half.”
“Four and a half.”
“Four is my final offer.”
Draco scoffed. “Is that so? What are you going to do, show up with half the Auror department?”
Harry pursed his lips. “Not if I don’t have to. But I would.”
“No, you wouldn’t.”
“Care to find out?”
“You’re mental.”
“Maybe,” Harry shrugged. “Trouble is, I don’t care. Now, will you be here for a while, or are you coming home with me?”
“I suppose I'll go, but only since I've already finished my tea,” Draco said with another sigh, which Harry ignored as they both rose from their seats. While they walked to the Apparition point together, Harry replayed in his mind the flicker of emotion on Draco’s face when he said “home.”
2.
The second time, Harry’s glass nearly shattered in his hand from how firmly he was gripping it.
He ignored Hermione’s knowing gaze and Ron’s eye roll as he unabashedly stared daggers at the bloke practically groping Draco at the bar. Harry saw Draco’s eyes widen imperceptibly, noticed his smile falter and his cheekbone twitch.
Yes, he observed this from across the room. You get to know a bloke after living with him for almost a year; besides, Harry was very perceptive—constant vigilance and all that.
Speaking of being an Auror, Harry was pretty sure this prick was breaking some sort of public indecency laws by the way he was sliding his hand further and further up Draco’s leg. Draco gently pried the man’s hand from his thigh, only for the stranger to laugh and reach over again, gripping it even more firmly.
Harry didn’t think beyond getting up from his seat and striding toward the bar, quickening his pace when he saw Draco’s eyes widen in panic. He barely registered the look of horror on the stranger’s face when he grabbed the hand gripping Draco’s thigh and pinned the man face-down on the bar.
“He said no,” Harry said through clenched teeth, ignoring the man’s grunts and protests.
“We were just talking!” The man sputtered, his cheek pressed against the counter as he twisted and wriggled to get free.
Harry tightened his grip. “Conversation’s over. If I catch you trying to ‘talk’ to him again, I’ll make sure you have a nice chat with the Wizengamot about sexual assault. Now, apologize.”
“But—”
“Apologize!”
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry.”
Harry smirked. “Good.” He released the man’s arm and let him right himself. The man froze, looking between Harry and Draco expectantly.
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Leave. Now.”
The man nodded, scurrying out of the now silent bar, the bell attached to the door tinkling behind him.
“You didn’t have to do that, you know.” Draco’s face was blank other than a raised eyebrow.
Harry shrugged. “Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No, I’m not. But I am glad you’re okay. You are, right? He didn’t hurt you?” Harry’s chest tightened at the suggestion.
But Draco shook his head. “No, I’m fine. But I think that’s my sign to head home.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“You don’t have to. I’m fine to Floo.”
“I want to.”
“What about your friends?”
Harry cringed and turned back to face the table to see Ron and Hermione looking at him, expressions full of nausea and amusement, respectively. He held up a hand in a small wave. Hermione shook her head and smiled fondly.
Harry grinned and turned back to Draco. “They’ll be alright without me. C’mon, let’s go home. I’ll make us some tea, yeah?”
Draco hesitated at first, but he nodded. And if Harry let his hand linger lightly on Draco’s back when they headed toward the Floo, they could both chalk it up to a safety measure.
3.
The door to Pansy Parkinson’s flat swung open before Harry could knock.
She took one look at him and rolled her eyes. “Could you have taken any longer to get here?”
Harry bristled. “I was—”
“Don’t care. Get in here, he’s on my couch.” She turned and walked away purposefully, and Harry trailed behind her.
“I thought you two were just going for drinks?”
Pansy sighed. “We were, but then we came back here for a few more, and he got into my tequila when my back was turned.” She shook her head. “Tequila is his one weakness—well,” she smirked. “One of them, anyway.”
Harry furrowed his eyebrows and opened his mouth to respond when a shout sounded from the living room.
He looked over to see Draco sprawled across the couch, an empty glass in one hand and the other nearly touching the floor, his leather-clad legs spread wide.
Draco grinned at Harry. “Harrryyy!!! Come to join the party?”
“He’s come to end it, more like,” Pansy crossed her arms. “It’s time for you to go home, love.”
Draco let out a high, keening whine and burrowed himself further into the couch. “Don’ wanna. Tired. Stay here.”
“No, Draco, we’ve got to go home,” Harry walked up to the couch. His breath caught when gray eyes blinked wide and pleadingly up at him.
Draco held out his arms. “Up.”
“Er, what?”
Draco jerked his arms up and down, keeping them in the air. “Up! Help me up, you great oaf!”
Harry sighed and bent down, taking Draco in his arms and nearly stumbling when the blond let his body weight fall into him.
Draco smirked lazily. “Oops,” he said with a grin in his voice. “Guess you gotta carry me.”
Harry scoffed, looking to Pansy for appeal.
She waved a hand dismissively. “He’s your problem, now. Just get him out of my flat and back home intact, will you?” She didn’t wait for him to respond, walking away into another room.
Harry sighed. He wasn’t sure about the safety of Apparating or taking the Floo with someone in your arms, and the twists and turns of the Knight Bus could make a sober person sick up. With a grunt, he hoisted Draco up and into his arms bridal style, and the other man yelped and then giggled wrapping his arms around Harry’s neck.
“Home,” Draco said softly, and affection spread through Harry’s chest.
“Okay, Draco,” Harry whispered as they made their way out of the flat. “I’ve got you.”
+1.
Harry woke to the sound of muffled voices shouting at each other and the constant beep of a monitor.
He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, wincing as a sharp pain exploded in his side with the effort. Memories came rushing back: the raid, turning his back for a split second to shout something at Ron, blinding pain, then darkness. He tried to sit up in the hospital bed, but he let himself lie back down when his side throbbed once more.
Suddenly, the door was opened and then promptly slammed shut. “Honestly, the nerve of these people. If he needs bed rest, then where is better than his own bed? Is my Healer degree rendered meaningless the moment I’m off the clock?” Draco muttered, running a hand through his hair as he paced the room angrily.
“Draco?”
Draco jumped and turned to Harry with wild, startled eyes that made Harry laugh, and then wince in pain.
“You’re awake, thank Merlin,” Draco approached the side of the bed, relief replacing the shock on his face.
“How long have I been out?”
“Two days. You were hit with a rare curse that caused an ever-bleeding wound in your side, and the healers had to put you in a magically induced coma to reverse it.”
“That sounds good. Do Robards and—”
“Yes, Ron gave Robards the full briefing. You’re not expected in the office until a Healer permits it.”
“So, can I go home?”
“Yes, now that you’re awake, you can go home. I’ll monitor you from there.”
Harry frowned. “You don’t have to.”
Draco let out a short, humorless chuckle. “You were in a coma for two days, Harry. The only reason they’re discharging you is that you’re going home with a Healer.”
“But you don’t actually have to stay and watch me all day, right?”
“What part of ‘I’ll monitor you from there’ don’t you understand?”
“But I’m fi-!” The last word was cut off as Harry hissed through another spark of pain.
“Fine, are you?”
“Shut up.”
Draco smirked. “Not likely.”
Harry scowled, eliciting a real laugh from Draco, who moved to sit on the edge of the bed.
“Flatmates don’t do this, y’know.”
Draco’s eyebrows furrowed. “What?”
“Take several days off of work to care for the other when they’re injured. I’m not even sure friends do that.”
Harry noticed Draco’s jaw tighten. He ached to reach up and relax it with a gentle touch, but he kept his hand at his side.
“What are you saying, Harry?” Draco asked, his voice low and even.
“I’ll tell you what,” Harry swallowed. “I won’t argue about you wasting days away from work if you let me take you to dinner when I’ve recovered.”
The beginning of a smile curved Draco’s lips. “And what will we do in the meantime?”
Harry waggled his eyebrows. “I can think of a few ways to pass the time.”
Draco chuckled. “If you think I’m missing work just so you wind up back in here because you restarted bleeding during sex, you’ve another thing coming.”
Harry pouted halfheartedly. “Apparently I won’t be coming at all.”
Draco mimicked his petulant frown. “Aww, ickle Harry, being waited on for days by his flatmate-turned-boyfriend.”
“I’ll tell you what—”
“Didn’t we already make a deal?”
“I’ll tell you what: I won’t argue about you missing work or not having sex until I’m recovered if you let me take you to dinner once I’m healed and if we can snog as much as we like.”
"What makes you think I’ll agree to those terms?”
Harry shrugged. “If you don’t like those terms, I can come up with more. Now that I’m on bed rest, I’ve got plenty of time to think.”
“You’re not supposed to strain yourself,” Draco smirked when Harry glared at him.
Harry huffed. “You need to work on your bedside manner, Healer Malfoy.”
“I’ll get plenty of practice this week, then, won’t I?”
“Yes, you will. Now, can we get out of here? I want to start my healing regimen right away.”
Draco laughed and laced their fingers together. “Alright, Harry. Let’s go home.”
Send me an ask about Harry Potter, broadway/musicals, The West Wing, and/or Taylor Swift! Or just about life in general :).
Also, I have a playlist of my 99 most listened-to songs of the year so far. Pick a number 1--99 and send me an ask and I'll write you a fic based on it!
Title: Two Hearts on Fire
Author: Katie @sunlightdances
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female Reader
Prompt: “If you need my shoulder, or my hand, or a hug-”
Rating/genre/warnings: PG-13. Mentions of alcohol, canon-typical violence, and swearing.
Summary: 3 times Dean was there for you when you needed it + 1 time you were able to repay the favor.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Supernatural or Dean Winchester. Please don’t repost my work on any other sites without my written permission! Reblogs are encouraged! Please, please, please reblog creators’ work if you like it. Likes are amazing and beautiful, but sharing your favorite work has such a big impact and really makes my day.
Author’s Note: I reference the Reader’s military history only because I just rewatched Generation Kill and have First Recon on the brain. I’m aware that the Marines don’t allow women into that Battalion, but let’s just pretend they do.
Links to my full masterlist can be found on my blog!
One.
You’re in a bar, the kind your mother always told you to stay away from, but you’re a little drunk, a little reckless, and a lot sad.
You concentrate on the amber liquid swirling in the glass in front of you, the sounds of the jukebox in the corner as some old, sad country song plays, and the way the world is just a little fuzzy at the edges.
Someone sits down next to you.
Not too close, but close enough that you can smell the musky scent of his cologne, and something sharp and metallic underneath. He’s tall. Broad. He glances at you, double takes. You mentally roll your eyes, preparing yourself for the inevitable pick-up line, but it never comes.
He drinks slowly, like you are. He doesn’t say anything, just a few murmured words to the bartender when he wants another glass.
He doesn’t even look at you, really, until someone sits down on your other side. Too close. Wandering eyes. Your shoulders tense. You prepare yourself for the inevitable line - what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this, or some similar variation, but it doesn’t come.
Instead, a hand, low on your hip, a threatening voice in your ear.
“One wrong move and I’ll kill you and the girl my friend over there just met in front of this entire bar,” he says, and you struggle to keep your face neutral as you look across the bar, a girl who can’t be older than nineteen giggling as a man twice her age whispers to her, his eyes locked on you.
“What are you?” You ask conversationally, taking another sip of whiskey.
“Like you don’t know.”
“I’m not hunting you.” You tell him, and his grip on you falters. It’s the truth - you’re a hunter, but you’re not hunting. Not tonight, anyway. You would laugh if you weren’t in a potentially life threatening situation - it figures the one night you want to take a break and relax, you end up mixed up in someone else’s hunt.
“What the fuck are you talking about? We scented you outside--”
“She might not be hunting, but we are.” The man on the other side of you speaks up, and you glance at him sharply, wondering how much of this entire exchange he heard. He tilts his head in the direction of the door. Another man dressed similarly in plaid and jeans stands there, twirling a knife in his hands, eyes hard.
“What the hell is this,” the man at your back growls.
“You’ve been terrorizing this town long enough. Time for your friend and you to eat one.” The man says, gulping the last bit of his drink, before standing and facing the two of you.
Despite yourself, your pulse starts to race. This isn’t ideal - a threat at your back where you’re vulnerable, a girl who has no idea what she’s walked into across the bar, probably close to being dinner for the men you’ve figured out are werewolves.
“Seems like a lose-lose,” you say casually, making eye contact with the hunter in front of you, trying like hell to figure out his next move.
The air is tense, and almost as if you’ve practiced it before, a wink from the hunter is your cue to elbow your assailant in the ribs hard, stomping on his feet at the same time.
You duck, just in time for the hunter to sucker punch the wolf with a hard left hook, his grip loosening enough for you to get out of the way. The man across the bar growls loud enough for you to hear, and you only hesitate for a half second before you’re moving, him meeting you halfway.
The other patrons are scrambling, the bartender yelling, but you ignore it all, concentrating with all your might on subduing him enough to get yourself and this innocent girl out of the bar.
You dodge a few swipes, alarmed when you see his claws out, and you curse under your breath, your reflexes slowed by alcohol just a bit, enough to make you nervous. The fight closer to the bar continues, and just as you think you’re about to bite it, another hand grips your shoulder, shoving you aside in time for you to regain your footing.
The two werewolves fully engaged, you grab the young girl’s arm, her eyes wide and filled with tears. You drag her outside, ignoring the fight behind you as people spill out of the bar, the bartender yelling that he’s called the police.
“Listen to me. You need to get on a bus, and get the hell out of town. Don’t come back for a week or two, maybe longer.” You find your wallet, shoving a few bills in her hand. She just stares at you. “Do you understand? Go!”
She nods frantically, taking the money and turning before running down the street.
Sighing, you turn back towards the bar, cracking your knuckles. Before you can do anything else, the noise stops, and the door opens. The hunter who had been with you at the bar looks around quickly before his eyes land on you.
“You okay?” He asks, gruff.
“Fine.”
“They’re dead,” he says bluntly. “Knocked the bartender out long enough to get them outside. The police are on their way, though.”
You nod. “Need help with the bodies?”
He considers it, but shakes his head slowly. “We got this one.” He tilts his head, “You really weren’t after them?”
You grit your teeth. “It’s my night off.”
He stiffens. “We don’t get nights off.”
You roll your eyes. “Well, whatever. Thanks for your help, but I--” really, really don’t need this tonight, you think, but decide just to stop talking. “I have to go.”
When the other hunter comes out of the bar and stands there, tall and imposing, you realize who they are. And you definitely don’t need to get involved in whatever shit the Winchesters are dealing with these days.
“Good luck,” you say, waving a hand nonchalantly before heading out to your car, passing the infamous black Impala on your way. You’d laugh if you weren’t so depressed.
They’re still there watching you when you glance in your rearview as you drive away.
Two.
“Any day now, Claire,” you say through grit teeth as you shove all your body weight against the closed door at your back, trying like hell to keep this angry spirit out, though a voice in the back of your head tells you it could just give up and go right through the wall.
“Going as fast as I can!” The younger girl tells you, and finally, finally the lighter in her hand whooshes to life, the canvas in her other hand lighting quickly.
The lights flicker like mad as the spirit screams, and then it’s all quiet, and you slump against the door, nodding at Claire across from you. “Good job, kiddo.”
Footsteps on the stairs startle you, as does the doorknob rattling.
“Shit, not again,” Claire swears, and then the unmistakable voice of Dean Winchester is on the other side of the door.
“Claire, open up!”
“Oh, come on…” You groan, pulling away from the door so you can open it. Yanking the door open, you’re greeted with Dean’s surprised expression.
“Oh.”
“What are you doing here?!” Claire nearly wails, clearly upset. “I told Jody I had a partner for this one, I had it under control!”
Dean, to his credit, looks a little chagrined. “She just said--”
“That I need a babysitter?”
You look back and forth between them, really not wanting to get in between whatever pseudo-family drama is brewing here.
“I think that’s my cue,” you say quietly. “So I’m just gonna--”
“How come she doesn’t get yelled at?” Claire asks, and you’re suddenly reminded about how young she is.
Dean snorts. “Because she’s a grown ass woman, and Jody didn’t send us here to yell at her.” He looks over at you, a smirk barely repressed.
You roll your eyes. “I don’t really do family drama, so if you’ll excuse me--”
“Wait!” Claire calls, and when you turn around, she’s already there throwing her arms around your shoulders, hugging you close. You stiffen. You’re not used to this affection - the way the young hunter is still so full of life and enthusiasm… it’s the way you remember being a long, long time ago. “Thank you,” she whispers before letting you go.
Head down, you smile gently. “No problem, kiddo. Stay out of trouble.”
You shrug past Dean Winchester in the doorway, his impossibly imposing figure making it hard to get by without brushing against him a little, and you scowl when he grins at you. Antagonizing little shit, you think, but you’re smiling a little too.
He finds you later at the 24-hour diner down the street, like you suspected he would.
A cup of steaming coffee is set down in front of you, and then he’s there, like he’s been conjured out of thin air.
“Fancy meeting you here.”
You hum in agreement.
“You don’t say much, do you?” He asks, but it’s not tinged with annoyance or mocking like you’d expect.
“I don’t know you. What do you want, my life story?”
He shrugs. “Your name would be a start.” He winces at himself, “that sounded like a line. Not how I meant it.” He takes a sip of his own coffee. “Claire talks about you like you’re old friends.”
You meet his eyes. “She’s a good kid.”
He nods. “I know she is. Just gets in over her head sometimes.”
You’re both quiet for a second. You have purposefully isolated yourself from anyone else in the hunting community because you’ve had enough camaraderie to last a lifetime. It never left you with anything but a broken spirit. Why Dean Winchester thinks he’s going to change that, you have no idea, but you suppose you can’t fault him.
You’ve heard all about him - the most surprising thing (heard from Claire and from Jody) being the way he seems to adopt every single person he meets. Everyone becomes part of the family whether he wants them to or not.
You tell him your name.
He frowns. “Why do I know that name?”
You tense up again, and he looks at you dead in the eyes, really looks at you.
“You don’t have to tell me.”
“You’ll figure it out eventually,” you sigh. “I was in the Marines. First Recon. I was a medic, and it was a total shit show. When I came back, I wasn’t the same person. I couldn’t fathom working at an office or some other shitty job. I met a friend of a friend who had a connection to hunting. Really hush hush. I had the skills. They needed help. The end.”
He looks surprised, but he regains his composure quickly. “And the friends?”
Your hard stare meets his. “Gone.”
He doesn’t press you. Doesn’t ask you who they were or what happened, he just takes the information for what it is - a story a thousand hunters have about a hunt gone wrong and an accident. No one’s fault, except you had your share of not-your-fault incidents in Iraq that still led to your friends dying. You were tired of it.
“Well. If you ever need any help or get in a pinch, we’re happy to help.” He says.
You know you won’t take him up on it. By the cautious look in his eyes, you think he knows that too. Still, it’s the thought that counts.
After he leaves, a waitress slides a slice of pie in front of you.
Confused, you look up, “I didn’t order this.”
“Your friend did.” She says, winking.
Dean Winchester, you think, the exact sort of friend I don’t need.
Three.
You’re pretty sure this is it.
There’s a blade at your throat, and the only reason you aren’t already dead is because the fucking vampires can’t stop arguing with each other.
You wonder if you’ll see your guys again in heaven, if that’s where you end up. Judging by the amount of civilian death you saw in Iraq, you’re not so sure. You picture the men you couldn’t save, the blood that you swear still stains your hands, and think that it’ll be nice to see them again. If only so you can properly repent.
You wonder if your hunter friends will be there too.
You’re distracted from your admittedly morbid thoughts by a knock on the door. It’s loud.
The vampires stop.
“Who is knocking?”
The other one literally shrugs. You roll your eyes. Is this a buddy comedy or a hunt?
One vamp tiptoes close to the door, and before they can do anything, the door flies open, splinters raining down, and the vamp is nailed in the face with the door, falling to the floor unconscious.
“Sorry to barge in,” Dean says. “You’ve got something I want.”
You snort, and have to laugh when you can see Sam Winchester over Dean’s shoulder rolling his eyes.
“What is this, SVU?”
“A little gratitude would be nice.” Dean says, frowning.
The vamp still holding a blade to your throat makes a choked noise. “Excuse me?!”
Dean’s eyes flick to his. The green in his eyes goes from warm to icy in a second. “Sorry, am I keeping you from something?”
“One more step and the girl dies.”
Sam steps into the room and smiles sunnily at you. “I feel like we’ve done this before.”
“Seems familiar, yeah.” You reply.
“Enough!” The blade digs into your throat.
The bickering and bantering has given you more than enough time to saw through the bindings on your wrist, but you’re in no hurry to give away the game. You feel a trickle of blood run down your neck and see Dean’s eyes narrow in on the spot. You just hope he keeps his cool long enough for you to work your way out of this.
“Let her go.” Sam says coolly.
“I don’t think so. Just to get my head chopped off?”
“Seems like a you problem.” Dean says.
“Boys, it’s been fun. But I have to go.” You say, seconds before you rear back, headbutting the vamp behind you. He drops the knife, sending it clattering to the ground, and you’re out of your seat to throw a hard right hook before he can react.
Sam and Dean react quickly, brandishing machetes and taking care of business while you check the other rooms in the house to make sure you’re alone.
Meeting back in the kitchen, you’re already recovering your bag that was taken from you and digging through it for your aid kit.
“How’d you do that?” Sam asks quietly. His eyes stray down to your neck as you wince, pressing a pad of gauze to your wound. “Get out of the ropes, I mean.”
You take out a long bandage, winding it around your neck. Without prompting, Sam steps closer and takes the loose end, helping you tuck it in where you can’t see.
“Thanks,” you say, distracted. “I keep a knife taped to my forearm,” you say. “Took forever to get it loose, but they didn’t check before they tied me up.”
Sam nods. Dean walks in a second later, eyes narrowing at the point where you and Sam are touching. You’d roll your eyes if you weren’t trying to make sure you don’t bleed to death.
“Need stitches?” His voice is gruff.
You shake your head. “No. Should be fine. Just a graze.”
He nods.
“How’d you know I was here?”
“Jody called. Said you were supposed to meet up and you never showed. Tracked you down from there.”
Digging through your bag one more time, you find your phone. “Feels like this is beginning to be a habit. You might as well put your numbers in.”
Dean looks like he wants to make a smart remark, but he doesn’t. You’re grateful. “Are you good?” He asks, eyes on your neck again.
“I’ll be fine.”
“Don’t get all emotional or anything.” He teases, and you roll your eyes yet again.
“Asshole.” You murmur, but there’s no heat behind it. “I have to go.”
They give you a ride back to the rest stop where the vamps ambushed you. You’re so tired you wonder if you shouldn’t take them up on the offer to keep you company, but then the faces of all the friends you’ve lost swim in front of you, and you remember why you can’t get close to them.
The Winchesters are too much trouble, even for you.
+1
You keep dreaming that your phone is ringing.
You wake up to someone pounding on your door, your heart racing, and you grip your gun tight as you make your way to the door.
“Open up!” A gruff voice demands, and your shoulders slump.
“Christ,” you mutter. Opening the door, you’re greeted with a pale and shaken Dean, Sam’s arm slung over his shoulder. “What the fuck happened?”
“Stabbed,” he says in a rush. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
“Get him inside and on the bed.” You say quickly, darting to the bathroom to dig out the med kit you keep fully stocked but luckily haven’t had to use since Iraq.
Back in your bedroom, Sam is groaning, and Dean is muttering platitudes.
“Sam? Sam, hey.” You say, hovering over him. “Look at me, Sam.” He meets your eyes. Luckily his pupils are both the same size, and you smile at him. “There you are. Hi, Sam. You’re going to be okay.”
Dean hovers, and you try to ignore the feeling of his eyes on you as you work.
“I’ve got to get the shirt off,” you tell Sam. “Don’t read anything into it.”
He smiles despite the pain he’s clearly in.
“Sam, can you breathe okay?”
He doesn’t answer. He’s writhing a little, and you force yourself to concentrate.
“Sam,” you repeat, more forcefully, trying to get his focus. “Can you breathe?”
“Yeah, I can breathe. Jesus Christ.”
“Good, that’s good. You’re going to be okay, Sam.”
The wound isn’t too deep. Missed anything important. You relay the information to Dean, who settles a little, perched on the side of the bed as you begin cleaning Sam up.
“Stop squirming,” you chide softly. “Dean, grab his hand or something. He needs to stop moving so I can stitch him.”
The process of cleaning him up and getting him stitched is almost robotic. You can’t count how many times you’ve had to do this in the Marines. You just pray that this time ends better than some of the others.
“Sam, can you squeeze my hand?” You ask, stopping what you’re doing and reaching for the hand that’s not currently being held by Dean. He squeezes tightly. “There you go,” You soothe. “Gonna have a scar, Sammy. I’ve been told women like that sort of thing.”
“Shut up,” he mutters, but he’s smiling when you look up. “Fuck, that hurts.”
“Sorry,” you say, pulling the last stitch and tying it off as quickly as you can. “You have to stay put for a while, okay?”
“I was going to run a marathon.” He deadpans.
You chuckle and meet Dean’s eyes. He’s not smiling, not even a hint of his lips twitching, and you start to panic that he might be hurt too before he lets go of Sam’s hand and heads towards your kitchen.
Finishing up with Sam, you tell him to rest and that you’ll check on him in a few minutes. He squeezes your hand again, and then you head to check on his brother.
A glass clinking draws your attention to the kitchen table. Dean’s found your whiskey stash.
“Dean?”
He looks up. “Sorry for barging in here like this.”
You shake your head. “Don’t be.” Sitting across from him, you watch him carefully. “He’s going to be okay.”
Dean takes a deep breath. “I panicked. I’ve stitched him a million times, but he was bleeding so much-- I didn’t know what else to do.”
“That’s okay, Dean.” A beat, and then you add, ““If you need my shoulder, or my hand, or a hug-”
He lets out a watery laugh. “Shut up.”
You grin, plucking the glass from his hand and taking a sip.
“You don’t do hugs.” He adds.
You shrug. “I don’t know. I might, for you.”
His eyes are dark when they meet yours. “I’m really glad I met you,” he says softly.
It sounds crazy, but you think you can literally feel some of the darkness that’s hovered over you for years starting to clear. “I’m glad I met you too.” You reply, just as quiet, the two of you sharing the same glass of whiskey until it’s gone.
Maybe this is how you find your peace. Maybe you let these two guys in, let them be there for you in a way you’ve rarely let other people.
Maybe there’s something more here than just you watching your own back at every turn.
Later, when the two of you are squeezed onto your bed on either side of Sam, trying to catch a few hours of sleep while keeping an eye on him, you meet Dean’s eyes again. Wordlessly, his hand reaches for yours and gives it a squeeze.
You don’t let go, and neither does he.
You finally fall asleep, your heart already feeling lighter.
For the first time in almost a decade, you have no nightmares.
