A breakdown of the five specific places Dean Di Laurentis loves to claim you with his palms.
word count : 1.5k — explicit — SMUT minors DNI — spanking / slapping kink — impact play — established relationship — consent is sexy — enjoy and please tell me what you think !
There was one thing Dean Di Laurentis particularly loved in the bedroom—one vice he was completely, unapologetically obsessed with—and that was giving you the sharp, intoxicating sting of a slap.
He loved the friction of it. He loved the way the sudden, biting heat of his palm against your skin shattered whatever wall you had up, pulling you violently and beautifully into the present moment with him. Dean was a man who commanded space, whether he was dominating the ice or wearing that smug, untouchable grin around campus. But behind closed doors, that confidence turned into something primal, intensely vocal, and deeply tactile.
Before a single hand ever came down, there was always that quiet, heavy conversation—the checked boxes, the established safewords, and the dark, intense look in his eyes when he asked, "You ready for me?" and only when he heard your breathless, enthusiastic "yes" did he let that cocky hockey-star exterior melt away into something demanding. He didn't just want to touch you—he wanted to mark you with your full permission, to hear the breathy, undone sounds you only made for him, and to feel the physical evidence of his possession warming up against his hands.
He had five very distinct, highly choreographed ways of taking exactly what he wanted.
One — your ass
This was his go-to when he wanted to assert total control, usually happening late at night when the rest of the off-campus house was dead quiet. He’d have you on your hands and knees in the center of the mattress, completely exposed to him.
Dean never rushed this. He would stand over you for a moment, his eyes tracking the line of your spine, his fingers tracing the curve of your hips just to watch you shiver. Then, his large, heavy hand would anchor firmly on your waist, keeping you perfectly in place so you couldn't shrink away. When the first slap landed, it was a deep, heavy, echoing thud that seemed to vibrate through the entire room.
The shock of it would make you arch your back, a sharp gasp ripping from your throat as your skin instantly blooming into a deep, burning crimson. Dean loved the rhythm of it. He would use the slaps to drive the pace of the sex—worshiping the way the heavy impact made your ass cheeks roll and jiggle violently with every hit. He’d bring his palm down hard just to watch your flesh shake against his thighs, the visual driving him absolutely crazy as you trembled beneath him. By the time he was done, his wide handprints would be burned into your skin, a visual map of exactly where he’d taken you.
Two — your tits
This was a purely visual, frantic kind of worship that usually happened when the tension between you two had been building all day. He would be sitting up against the headboard, and you would be straddling his lap, taking him in slowly while your hands rested on his broad shoulders for balance.
Even though you technically had control over the depth and the speed, Dean’s hands were never lazy. He would watch you intently, his gaze heavy and darkened as he tracked the flush rising from your throat down to your chest. Suddenly, his right hand would leave your waist, his palm flattening out as he brought it down in a swinging slap right across the plush fullness of your breast.
The sound was entirely different from the ones before—it was wet, heavy, and loud. The sudden, biting sting would make your hips stutter, your spine locking up as you cried out, your chest immediately blooming a vibrant, angry pink under his touch. Dean would smirk, a low, pleased rumble vibrating in his chest as his other hand came around to strike the opposite side. He would alternate his palms, striking the soft skin of your breasts in perfect time with the frantic rhythm of your hips, driving you into a breathless, desperate haze where the burning heat on your chest mixed with the friction between your thighs until you were completely unhinged. Only when he was satisfied with the deep blush did his harsh strokes melt into a heavy, thorough massage, his large hands kneading the flesh to soften the sting while his lips followed behind, soothing the fire with hot, bruising kisses.
Three — your pretty face
This was reserved for the most intense, emotionally raw moments in the bedroom—the times when he needed you completely bare, with nowhere left to hide. It usually happened while you were kneeling between his thighs giving him head, or right in the middle of sex when the pleasure became so overwhelming you tried to close your eyes and turn away.
Dean wouldn’t let you. His large hand would slide up your throat, his fingers framing your jaw and tilting your head up, forcing absolute, unbroken eye contact. He would look down at you, his expression dead serious, completely stripped of his usual cocky playfulness.
Then, his palm would snap against your cheek. It wasn't a heavy, brutal blow meant to cause real harm, but a sharp, delicious slap that sounded like a quick clap echoing in the quiet room. The sudden shock of it would make your ears ring a little, a breathy sob catching in your throat. Before you could even blink, Dean’s thumb would gently, almost clinically, swipe over the hot, flushed mark on your skin. "Look at me," he’d rasp, his voice thick and demanding. "Keep those pretty eyes right on mine." Another slap would follow on the opposite cheek, shattering any lingering thoughts, leaving you utterly helpless and entirely focused on the weight of his gaze.
Four — your pussy
This was an exercise in pure vulnerability and exhibitionism. Dean would drag you off the bed entirely, pulling your shaking body down onto the hardwood floor. He would sit with his back pressed firmly against the wooden frame of the bed, pulling you back between his thighs so your spine was flush against his broad chest. Your legs would be forced wide apart, spreading you completely open in front of the full-length mirror leaning against the opposite wall.
"Look," Dean would whisper against your ear, his hot, uneven breath making you shiver as his heavy arm wrapped securely around your waist, trapping you against him. "Watch what I'm about to do to you."
You would be forced to watch in the reflection as his free hand slid down between your thighs, his fingers damp as they parted your sensitive skin. He would draw his hand back, and instead of one heavy strike, his fingers began to rain down on you in a flurry of small slaps—very, very fast, small taps that peppered your swollen, wet pussy. The sound was a rapid, obscene, pattering rhythm that echoed off the glass. The sheer speed of the tiny taps sent a jolt of pure, blinding electricity straight up your spine. You would try to twist away from the ticklish, hyper-sensitive ache of it, but his grip around your middle would only tighten, holding you perfectly still as his fingers continued their relentless, rapid pacing, reducing you to sobbing his name into the empty room.
Five — his personal favorite (both at the same time)
This was the absolute finale—the position Dean turned to when he wanted to completely break you down and rebuild you. He would lean comfortably against the headboard and drape your body completely over his lap. You would be lying flat on your belly across his thick thighs, your head hanging uselessly off one side, your legs slightly parted over the other.
Dean loved the absolute helplessness of this position. You couldn't see him, you couldn't move away, and you were completely at the mercy of his hands.
He would start slowly, building a relentless, punishing rhythm that you had consented to, but that still made your mind go entirely blank. His heavy palm would come down on your ass first—a deep, thudding strike that left a wide, pale imprint that slowly turned a throbbing crimson. But before the heat could even begin to fade, he would slide his hand lower, his fingers catching your highly sensitive pussy. He would alternate between the two: a heavy, resonant thud on your ass cheek, followed instantly by those rapid, stinging slaps directly to your slit.
The contrast was maddening. The heavy, aching bruise of the spanking on your ass cheeks followed instantly by the blurring, rapid-fire electricity of his fingers stinging your front. Your hands would grip the bedsheets so tightly your knuckles turned white, your hips twitching helplessly against his thighs with every single variation. Dean would take his time, listening to the shift in your cries, building the heat higher and higher until the sting transformed into a heavy, uniform, throbbing ache that colored your entire lower half red. He wouldn't stop until you were weeping openly, completely undone by the overwhelming intensity, right before he finally pulled you up into his arms to hold you close against his chest in the quiet afterglow.
🗒️ 𓈒 . “stop it,” you mumble, shoving munch! dean’s face away from your thighs. recently, you could never get any research done — at least not with dean around.
sitting comfortably on his bed in the bunker, you had hoped to get a little information about a case, but that soon failed the second dean walked in. he was on the bed, tucked between your thighs as he often liked to lay there, but this time? his fingers teased at your clothed pussy under your t shirt. just light little touches at first, tracing the outline of your puffy folds, rubbing tiny circles on your clit. but then he moved his mouth to your thighs, sucking loudly on the skin and inching closer to your core. it was obviously distracting.
“sweetheart,” he groans. “just let me. wanna taste you.” he pleads, already in the process of stretching your panties to the side. “d-dean, i’m trying to do research.” you complain, hoping he wouldn’t make a remark on how wet you were just from a few touches. but of course he notices.
“right, n’ that’s why this pretty pussy’s all soaked for me.” a nasty smirk curls onto his lips, using his other hand to spread your pussy lips wide to look at you. “fuck..” he grunts under his breath, watching the way your cunt tightened around nothing.
another complaint died on your tongue the second his licks a long, flat stripe up your center, drawing a pretty moan from you. “taste so sweet, baby.” his lips suction around your clit, tongue swirling with skill around the pulsating bud. “ohmygod—” the pen slips from your hand, newspaper following as he pushes your thighs further apart and devours you. he always does, moaning into it like he needs it more than you.
he leaves sloppy kisses to your pussy before dipping down and plunging his warm tongue inside your hole. his hot breath fans over the expanse of you, making you twitch. “h-haah.. dean..” you fingers curl into his hair, keeping him there. he laughs lapping up your arousal messily. “keep researchin’, darlin’. thought you had stuff to do?” he grins, not wasting any more time before spitting a glob of saliva onto your clit before watching it drip down to your hole. “god, i love this pretty ass cunt.” he praises, sucking juices out of your tight, fluttering hole.
A/N: I normally don’t write this young but this was a fun little step back in time!
When you heard a car door slamming down the street you just about jumped over Dean in the backseat of his car, instead landing in his lap and laughing body.
“Something spook ya sweetheart?” asked Dean, your head whipping around to see no one there.
“I thought it was my dad ready to kill us both,” you said, wrapping Dean’s flannel around yourself more.
“You said your parents go to bed at like 9,” he said. “We’re just making out, not like we’re having sex parked right out front of the house.”
“You haven’t met my dad. That’s just as bad to him,” you said, relaxing into Dean again, running your hand through his hair.
“You’re a cheerleader, in a hot little uniform. He should be proud you ain’t putting out,” said Dean, giving you a tiny kiss along your neck.
“Thanks for…” you said, Dean giving you a smile.
“Gary’s an ass. You told him no and he didn’t listen so I told him no,” said Dean.
“You punched him,” you said, Dean shrugging. “You know the football team is going to make life hell for you on Monday.”
“So? You don’t walk up to someone and kiss them without permission,” said Dean, brushing a strand of your hair that’d fallen from your pony tail behind your ear. “You ask the girl nicely and hope she lets you.”
“You realize the whole school thinks you’re some cocky scary freak,” you said, giving him a slow and drawn out kiss, smiling against his soft lips.
“The whole school?” he asked, looking up with half hooded eyes, a teasing look on his face.
“Maybe not the whole school,” you said, wrapping your arms around the back of his neck. “You’re a gentleman under that leather jacket and tough guy demeanor.”
“Well I’m the one making out with you while Gary’s got a swollen face to match his ego. I must be doing something right,” said Dean.
“You really should get out of here before my dad catches us,” you said, neither one of you moving. “Wouldn’t want you to get a black eye yourself.”
“I’ll see you at school then sweetheart. I won’t take offense if you pretend I don’t exist anymore,” he said, giving you a smile that he meant it.
“We’ve got lunch same period, right? I’ll sit with you,” you said, Dean raising an eyebrow.
“You really shouldn’t. Our social circles don’t exactly mix. I’m out of here in a few weeks anyway when we move again,” said Dean.
“So you aren’t allowed to have friends?” you asked. “That’s stupid.”
“Y/N, I think you should get out of the car now,” said Dean, his face scrunching up.
“No, I’m sitting with you and that’s final. I’m your friend as long as you’re in this town,” you said.
“Y/N, I-” said Dean.
“What are you doing young lady?” you heard behind you as the door opened.
Summary: You're working on a case and interrogate one of the eye witnesses with the Winchesters, who just happens to be your ex-boyfriend.
☆☆
You were working on a case with the Winchesters and were about to interrogate one of the eye witnesses to get more information on what had exactly happened. You didn't know who it was just yet but as you were standing at the doorstep and the door opened, your stomach dropped and eyes widened.
"Y/N?" a familiar voice with an even more familiar face said, surprised as well.
Oh, hell no. No no no no no no.
"What are you doing here? God, it's been such a long time. How are you?" the guy asked. The guy who had been your first boyfriend and first everything. Date, kiss, sex... And after all these years, there he was again.
"I'm... fine, thanks," you said quietly, awkwardly shifting your weight from one leg to another and wrapping your arms around your body as if to protect yourself from something.
"You guys know each other?" Sam asked with furrowed eyebrows.
"Yeah, we used to date in high school. You know, high school sweethearts," he explained, letting out a chuckle. He was much more relaxed in this situation than you were. Maybe just the presence of Sam and Dean made you unease. Maybe. But why?
You hadn't seen him since you departed ways after high school, him going to a college in a different state and you deciding to stay in your hometown and work.
"Uh, why don't we just get to the case and get this over with," you quickly said and started walking towards the couch in the living room.
The three guys followed you, and Dean made sure to sit next to you, his thigh brushing yours.
When you were done with getting the information you needed, you headed towards the door with Dean and Sam but didn't manage to exit the apartment when a voice stopped you.
"Hey, Y/N," your ex said and grabbed your arm, making you turn towards him. "Can i talk to you for a minute?"
"Um, i, uh..." you stuttered, not wanting to stay here any longer because of Dean and Sam but a part of you knew that there was still unfinished business with you that you needed to talk through.
"We'll wait in the car," Sam said and led Dean out of the apartment.
When the door was closed and you were left alone with your ex, he continued, "I was wondering... since we're more grown up now, would you like to give us another go?"
"You want to get back together?" you asked, lifting your eyebrows.
"Let me take you to just one date and we'll go from there, okay?" he pleaded and took your hand in his, brushing your knuckles with his thumb. "I've missed you, Y/N. You have no idea how much and now that you're here, i..."
You hesitated. Sure, he had been your first love and the one who you thought you'd spend the rest of your life with when you were teenagers, sure that you'd stay together forever. Get married, have kids, buy a house... It had been years since you last saw him and whatever feelings you had had for him had now faded. Not entirely, some part of you would always love him, but you didn't need to have him in your life anymore. You had moved on, as you thought he had done as well.
Dean was sitting in the car behind the wheel, looking at the two of you talking in the apartment, he could see you through the window. He examined every reaction you got from his words, every slight smile you gave him. He took your hands in his, brushing your knuckles. You didn't pull your hands away as Dean had hoped. Step away from him, push him away to tell him it was all over. What was he saying to you?
Dean turned his head away from you, clenching his jaw and gritting his teeth.
"She's not gonna get back with him," Sam reassured him, able to read his brother's mind just by examining the expressions on his face.
"Why would i care anyway if she did," Dean mumbled.
Sam was aware that Dean fallen in love with you, it was clear to anyone around him. It had first started as just a small, innocent crush and a little bit of flirting but as time went by, his feelings grew and grew, starting to be too large for him to handle. Dean wasn't able to confess his feelings to you, though he knew he should if he didn't want to look at you in someone else's arms. See someone else holding your hands.
One thing what also bothered Dean was that your ex was totally different compared to Dean, at least by the looks. Was he your type or would you be attracted to other types too? Shut up, Dean thought, almost wanting to slap himself on the face to get control of his mind.
Then, as Dean turned to look at you again, you were hugging your dear old ex-boyfriend, arms wrapped around his neck, his arms around your waist. Dean's heart dropped at the sight, chest tightening and both anger and sadness starting to take over his body. Dean had no right to be mad at you, of course he knew that, but his body didn't.
Sam witnessed the sight too: you with your ex and Dean losing his mind.
Eventually, you returned to the car, opening the impala's backseat door and hopping inside. Dean pretended like he hadn't paid any attention on your absence.
"Ready to go?" Dean asked. You didn't pay attention to the slight cranky tone in his voice but Sam could hear it loud and clear.
"Yeah, let's go grab something to eat. I'm starving," you groaned and slumped back against the seat.
Didn't want to go get dinner with that lover boy of yours, Dean thought. He had to bit his tongue not to let the words accidentally out loud. He wasn't jealous, you'd definitely catch up on it. If you didn't, Sam would and wouldn't stop teasing him about it. He was not jealous.
Fine, maybe he was a little jealous. Maybe he was the one who wanted to hug and hold you. Maybe he was the one who wanted to –
"Dean?" Sam said, startling Dean from his thoughts.
"Huh?"
"I asked if we could go to the diner where we ate at last time," you repeated.
"Oh, right. Yeah sure," Dean said, shortly glancing at you from the rearview mirror until turning his head to look back at the road.
☆☆
The three of you sat at a diner eating burgers and fries. It felt like several hours since you'd last gotten anything to eat.
You couldn't help but notice that Dean was much more quiet than usual, avoiding eye contact with you and just concentrating on his own meal.
Dean's mind and thoughts were wandering to several different directions all at once. How many times had your ex taken you out to eat burgers? How many times had he done this and that what Dean had done with you but in a romantic way?
"So," Sam broke the silence, quickly glancing at Dean before aiming his gaze on you on the other side of the table. "Are you going to see him again?"
"What?" you asked. "Oh, right. No, i've moved on from him. I wished him all the best in life but i'm not going back to him anymore."
"Really? You just... looked awfully close over there," Dean mumbled, and you weren't sure if you even heard him correctly.
"Were you watching us?" you asked, narrowing your eyes and a teasing smile lingering on your lips.
"Me, i, no," Dean stuttered, quickly turning back to his food and taking another bite from his burger, now slightly larger so he wouldn't need to reply to anything for a moment.
Dean wondered how many exes you actually had, you had never talked about any of them. Why would you? It was none of his, or Sam's, business and in the past. But how many were there? How many men had been with you and –
"Dean?" you said. "Everything alright?"
"Yeah, of course," Dean replied and pulled on a smile which might have managed to convince you but not Sam.
Why did you have to look so pretty even when you had mayonnaise sliding down from the corner of your mouth and a piece of lettuce stuck between your teeth? So pretty when you had dark bags under your eyes for not having slept in the past 32 hours? Hair greasy for not having washed it in the past three days? None of those things could take away your beauty.
Dean wanted to tell you how much he cared about you. How much it hurt him when he saw you hugging and holding hands with a guy who wasn't him. But every time he would have had a chance to do so, the words were stuck in his throat and he couldn't get a single word out. Not when you were looking at him like that with those pretty eyes of yours. God, your eyes were pretty.
Maybe some day he'd be able to tell you how damn deep in love with you he was.
☆☆
On the drive back to the motel, it was getting dark outside and you were growing more and more tired, eyes feeling heavy and closing themselves. You tried to stay awake, it wouldn't take more than 20 minutes to get to the motel, if even that much.
However, you soon gave up and fell asleep, head against the cold window.
When Dean had parked the car in the parking lot, he turned to look at you over his shoulder just to see you peacefully asleep, forehead against the glass. Great. Dean didn't want to wake you up, this wasn't the first time he'd had to carry you out of the car, but now if he opened the door, you'd fall on the ground.
With Sam's help, Dean managed to get you out of the car without waking you up – Dean had learned quickly since he had met you that you were a heavy sleeper. He carried you into the motel room, your head resting against his chest, ear right against his beating heart. You were a heavy sleeper, sure, but Dean was afraid that his rapid heart beat alone was enough to wake you up.
Dean carefully laid you on the mattress, placing your head comfortably on a pillow and pulled your shoes off. He covered you with a thick blanket, tucking it all the way to your jaw to keep you warm and safe while you were asleep.
He couldn't reveal his feelings to you, no. What if you didn't feel the same? Saw him just as a friend? He didn't even want to imagine how awkward things would become between the two of you.
Also, if others, such as demons or other creatures who wanted Sam and Dean dead, found out about the person Dean was in love with, they would definitely turn it against him.
But the image of you hugging your ex was still bugging his mind, glued there. He wanted to be the one to do that. To hold you, to kiss you – to tell you how much he loved you. For fuck's sake, he was a coward but he wasn't someone to have good things stay in his life longer than for a short moment.
"Goodnight, sweetheart," Dean whispered, taking one last look at you and walked to the door, silently closing it behind him.
Can I please request one where maybe Nelli is 12 and got her first period and shes with Sam as Dean is doing something idk just not with her at the moment and Nelli gets kinda freaked out and she just wants Dean and wants his comfort. I feel like Nelli would still be very affectionate at times even though she’s about to be a teen lol 😂
100% your choice
You’re not dying
The cheap motel mirror was spotted with old water stains, but twelve-year-old Nelli didn’t care. She leaned in close, aggressively tugging a brush through her tangled, light brown hair, trying to make it look halfway normal. She was supposed to meet up with Sarah, a girl she’d met at the local diner the day before, and she was already running late.
“Hey, lightning,” Dean called out from the main room. He was sitting on the edge of his unmade bed, cleaning a disassembled shotgun with a greasy rag. “You got five minutes before I revoke your hall pass. Come here.”
Nelli let out a loud, theatrical sigh, rolling her green eyes so hard it practically hurt. She grabbed her denim jacket off the bathroom doorknob and stormed out into the cramped bedroom, her sneakers dragging against the ugly carpet. “I’m literally just going three blocks down to the diner, Dean. It's not that serious...”
Sam looked up from his laptop at the rickety table, shaking his head. “Doesn't matter if it's three blocks or three miles, Nels. You know the drill. What are the rules?”
“Stay where there are people, keep my phone fully charged, don't talk to creepy guys, and if anything feels weird, use the code word,” Nelli recited in a flat, monotone voice, crossing her arms over her chest. “Can I go now? Feels like I’m in freaking jail.”
“Hey. Drop the attitude, kiddo,” Dean said, his voice instantly dropping into that firm, older-brother register that meant business. He stood up, towering over her, and deliberately reached out to messily ruffle the top of her hair, completely ruining the brushing she’d just spent ten minutes on.
“Dean! Stop it!” she snapped, batting his large hand away and taking a sharp step back, her temper flaring. “Seriously, you ruin everything!”
Dean didn't laugh this time. His green eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching slightly as he pointed his finger directly at her face. “Watch your mouth, Nels. I mean it. You've been snapping at us since we pulled into this town, and my patience is running on fumes. You want to go hang out like a regular kid? Fine. But you don't talk to me or Sam like we’re your punchlines. You got me?”
Nelli bit the inside of her cheek, her chest heaving with a mix of embarrassment and sudden, unexplained irritation that made her want to scream. “Yeah. Whatever. Got it.”
“Say it like you mean it,” Dean pressed, his voice stern but grounded.
“I got it, Dean,” she muttered, looking down at her sneakers.
“Alright,” Sam cut in gently, trying to defuse the tension before it blew up. He gave her a soft, encouraging smile. “Have fun. Be back by five, okay?”
Nelli didn't answer. She just snatched her keys off the nightstand, spun on her heel, and slammed the heavy motel door behind her, the glass rattling in its frame.
The diner had been fine, but by the time four o'clock rolled around, Nelli was exhausted. Sarah had been nice enough, but the constant effort of trying to act like a normal, carefree teenager when her entire life was lived out of a duffel bag felt draining. Her lower back was aching with a dull, heavy throb, and a strange, cramping pain was beginning to knot up her stomach.
She walked back to the motel, her feet dragging. She felt a sudden wave of guilt for snapping at Dean earlier; her mood had been entirely out of her control all day, swinging from furious to miserable for absolutely no reason.
She unlocked the door to Room 14, fully expecting to see Dean watching a wrestling fight on the tiny TV and Sam drowning in research.
“Hey,” Nelli called out, closing the door behind her. “I'm back.”
Silence greeted her. The motel room was completely empty.
Dean’s jacket was gone from the back of the chair, and Sam’s laptop was shut on the table. A small, familiar yellow sticky note was left on the wooden dresser in Sam’s neat handwriting: Had to run to the hardware store for salt and check a lead at the county records. Back in an hour. Lock the door.
Nelli groaned, tossing her jacket onto the bed. The cramping in her stomach suddenly spiked, a sharp, twisting ache that made her double over slightly. Wincing, she rushed into the bathroom, figuring the greasy diner fries were just messing with her stomach.
She pulled down her jeans, and the second she looked down, her entire world came to a sudden, terrifying halt.
Bright, dark crimson blood stained her underwear.
Nelli’s breath hitched in her throat, her heart instantly hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her mind raced through every horrible thing she’d ever heard about hunts, cursed objects, and internal injuries. Was she bleeding out? Did something curse her at the diner? Was she dying?
Panic, cold and absolute, washed over her. She scrambled for a handful of toilet paper, trying to wipe it away, but there was more. The sharp pain in her abdomen twisted again, and a sob tore out of her throat.
“What’s happening…” she whispered, her voice breaking into a high, frightened cry as she stared at the tiles. She was completely alone in a dingy bathroom, and the only person who had ever kept her safe from the terrors of the world wasn't there.
The heavy rattle of the Impala's engine pulling into the gravel lot outside cut through the quiet room, followed a moment later by the loud, familiar clatter of the motel door swinging open.
“Nels? You back?” Dean’s voice boomed through the space, carrying a paper bag that smelled strongly of greasy takeout and onions. “We brought burgers. Get your butt out here before Sam eats yours.”
Nelli was still sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, her knees pulled tight against her chest, her face buried in her denim jacket to muffle her crying. At the sound of his voice, a sharp wave of relief crashed over her, but the sheer panic kept her entirely paralyzed.
“De…” she tried to call out, but the word caught in her throat, coming out as a tiny, pathetic squeak. She swallowed hard, forcing her voice through the knot of terror. “Dean?”
She didn’t even know why she called him, she wasn’t going to let him in but just knowing that he was there, and she wasn’t alone, calmed her nerves.
In the main room, Dean froze mid-stride, his green eyes instantly darting toward the closed bathroom door. He’d spent fourteen years tracking the slightest shift in his sister's tone, and the fragile, shaky vibration in her voice right now set off every hunter instinct he had. He tossed the takeout bag onto the table, his posture instantly going rigid.
“Nels?” Dean walked over to the bathroom, stopping right outside the door, his hand hovering near the knob. “Hey. Everything okay in there?”
“Yeah,” she choked out, trying desperately to sound normal, but it ended up sounding high-pitched and completely breathless. “Just... give me a minute.”
Sam stepped up behind Dean, his brow furrowed in concern as he looked at the closed door. “Nelli? You're not sick, are you? Did something happen at the diner?”
“No! I'm fine!” she yelled back, her voice cracking under the stress. “Just go away!”
Dean’s jaw clenched. He didn't like the sound of this at all. If she’d been targeted by something supernatural, or if she was hurting, he needed to know now. He knocked firmly on the wood, his voice dropping into that low, no-nonsense, commanding tone he used when there was absolutely no room for arguments.
“Eleanor. Unlock the door and get out here right now. I'm counting to three.”
The use of her full name did it. The lock clicked, and the door swung open a mere couple of inches.
Dean didn't wait. He pushed the door the rest of the way, his eyes instantly scanning her for a hex mark, a wound, or an injury. But the second the space opened up, Nelli didn't say a word. She lunged forward, burying her face straight into the rough canvas of his shirt, her small hands clutching the fabric of his jacket with a terrifying, white-knuckled grip. She was shaking violently, her tears instantly soaking through his sleeve.
“Whoa, whoa, hey,” Dean’s sternness completely evaporated, replaced by a sudden, protective panic. He hooked his large arms securely around her shoulders, anchoring her against his chest as he looked around the tiny bathroom, trying to spot the threat. “Kiddo, look at me. What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Did someone touch you?”
Sam was hovering at the doorway, his face pale as he looked at how frantic she was. “Nels, talk to us. What happened?”
Nelli just buried her face deeper into the crook of Dean’s neck, her breath hitching in a ragged, miserable gasp. The shame and the sheer terror of what she’d seen were fighting for dominance in her chest.
“I'm... I'm bleeding, De,” she choked out, her voice a tiny, muffled whisper against his collarbone.
Dean went entirely rigid, his heart hitting his ribs like a sledgehammer. His hands automatically moved to check her sides, his voice sharp with terror. “Where? Where are you bleeding, Nels? Did you get cut? Did someone follow you?”
“No!” she sobbed, pulling back just enough to look at him, her face completely flushed and wet with tears. She looked incredibly young in that moment, her green eyes wide with a desperate, primitive fear. “In the... in the bathroom. On my clothes. There's blood, Dean. Lots of it. I don't know why, my stomach hurts so bad, and I think... I think I'm dying. I think something's wrong with me.”
Dean stared at her, his brain frantically trying to piece the clues together—the moodiness all morning, the dull back ache she’d mentioned, the sudden cramping, and now this.
Slowly, the frantic hunter panic in Dean's chest hit a sudden, screeching halt. A completely different kind of realization washed over his face, his expression freezing into a mix of utter bewilderment and profound, older-brother awkwardness. He cut a wide-eyed, slightly panicked look over his shoulder at Sam.
Sam’s jaw was slightly slack, his eyes widening as the pieces clicked for him, too. He took a cautious half-step back into the bedroom, rubbing the back of his neck, looking entirely out of his depth.
Dean looked back down at Nelli, who was still looking up at him like he was the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth. He let out a long, slow breath, his large hand coming up to gently smooth back her messy hair, his voice dropping into a soft, grounding rumble.
“Hey. Look at me, rugrat. Look at my face,” Dean murmured, his touch incredibly tender. “You’re not dying. I promise you, you’re completely fine.”
"You're not dying, Nels. I swear to you," Dean repeated, his voice solid and completely steady, though inside, his brain was scrambling at a hundred miles an hour. He cleared his throat, trying to force down the massive wall of older-brother awkwardness currently choking him. “Look, it’s just... it’s a girl thing, alright? It means you’re growing up. It’s called a period.”
Nelli blinked up at him, her tear-stained face scrunching into a look of pure confusion and lingering horror. “A... a what? Dean, I'm bleeding! How is that normal?”
“It just is, kiddo,” Dean grumbled, rubbing the back of his neck, his face definitely heating up a little. He kept his arm securely wrapped around her shoulders, keeping her grounded. “It happens to every girl. It just means your body is doing what it’s supposed to do. You're completely healthy, Nels. I promise.”
From the doorway, Sam finally cleared his throat, his face a sympathetic shade of pink. “Yeah, Nels. Dean’s right. It’s completely normal. You’re okay.”
Nelli looked between the two of them, her breathing finally starting to slow down from the absolute panic, though her stomach still gave a nasty, painful twist. “So... I'm not sick?”
“Not even a little bit,” Dean murmured, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze. He pointed toward the shower. “Alright, here's what we're gonna do. You’re gonna go take a warm shower and get changed into some fresh clothes. Strip those off and put 'em in the sink, I'll handle the laundry part. Go on.”
Nelli nodded miserably, sniffling as she stepped back into the bathroom.
The second the bathroom door clicked shut, Dean spun around and glared at Sam, his eyes wide with a silent, frantic panic. “Sam. Supplies. Now.”
“On it,” Sam said, already reaching for his jacket and the car keys.
“Don't go to a store, man, she’s in there right now,” Dean whispered urgently, gesturing to the door. “Go to the front desk. Hit up the vending machines or ask the manager’s wife. Just get whatever they have.”
Sam didn't need to be told twice. He turned on his heel and sprinted out the motel door, his long legs eating up the pavement as he dashed toward the main office.
Dean let out a long, heavy breath, leaning his back against the wall next to the bathroom door. He could hear the shower water start to rumble against the old pipes, punctuated by Nelli’s occasional, quiet hiccups. He hated this for her. He hated that she had to go through regular, scary teenager milestones in a dingy, drafty motel room with two brothers who knew way more about silver bullets than feminine hygiene.
Less than five minutes later, the motel door burst open again. Sam rushed in, slightly out of breath, holding a small plastic grocery bag tightly in his hand. “Got 'em,” Sam whispered, handing the bag over. “The lady at the desk gave me a handful of stuff from her own stash.”
“Good. Nice work, Sasquatch,” Dean muttered, taking the bag. He knocked gently on the bathroom wood. “Hey, Nels. Open up a crack.”
The door opened just enough for Nelli to peek her wet face out, a towel wrapped tightly around her frame. Dean awkwardly thrust the plastic bag into her hands, looking absolutely anywhere but at her. “Here. Sam got this from the front desk. There’s... pads and stuff in there. You figure out how to use 'em, or you need Sam to look up a manual on his computer?”
“Dean!” Sam hissed from the kitchen area, his face turning bright red.
A tiny, breathless watery giggle finally broke through Nelli’s misery. “I know how to do it, idiot. I can figure it out…” she mumbled the last part under her breath.
“Yeah, well, don't scare me like that again,” Dean grumbled, though a massive wave of relief washed over him at the sound of her laugh. “Get dressed.”
When Nelli finally walked back out into the main bedroom, she looked entirely exhausted. She was swallowed up in her oversized gray sweatpants and one of Dean's old, soft flannels, her hair damp and clinging to her neck. The cramping in her lower abdomen was still a dull, heavy throb, making her drag her feet.
Dean was already sitting on the edge of his bed, having cleared off his shotgun parts. He held up a thick, warm mug of hot chocolate Sam had made using the kitchenette microwave. “C'mere, rugrat.”
Nelli didn't hesitate. She crawled straight onto the mattress, curling her legs up tightly against her chest and burying her face right back into the crook of Dean’s neck, the heavy mug clutched between her small hands. The hot ceramic felt good against her shivering fingers.
Dean wrapped his large, calloused arms around her, securely anchoring her against his chest. He began to rock her back and forth in a slow, hypnotic rhythm, his large hand coming up to gently, rhythmically stroke through her damp hair.
A stray, exhausted tear slipped down Nelli’s cheek, her voice muffled against his flannel shirt. “My stomach hurts, De.”
“I know, kiddo. I know,” Dean whispered, his voice dropping into that deep, soothing rumble that always acted like a security blanket for her. He pressed a long, tender kiss to the top of her damp head, his touch incredibly careful. “S'alright. The hot cocoa will help. There’s no need to cry anymore, Nels. Me and Sam, we got you. We’re right here.”
Beside the bed, Sam silently dragged a chair over, setting down a bottle of ibuprofen and a fresh bottle of water on the nightstand, giving her a soft, encouraging smile.
Nelli closed her eyes, her breathing finally leveling out into a calm, steady rhythm as she melted into the solid, unyielding heat of her older brother’s arms, the scary world outside fading away into the quiet safety of the room.
A/N: I absolutely loved writing this!!! I actually need more requests like this, with teenage Nelli, cause they’re fun to write
cw: hurt/comfort, john winchester's A+ parenting, physical abuse, john projecting hard, dean being absolutely whipped for you
wc: 6620 - read on ao3 here
a/n: this is the updated version, in case anyone coming across this has read my original post!! I had gotten into my head about whether I use too many metaphors, so I cut it down to an easy-to-swallow size. But fuck it, we ball *adds 3k to your Dean fic*
SWEET DREAMS
The Winchesters arrived in the middle of the night; a few blunt hits with a closed fist to the front door. Bobby Singer felt his heart jump in his chest.
Sweat coated his forehead and not just from the thick heat of summer still lingering in the house like an unwanted guest overstaying their welcome.
He abandoned the beer he'd been nursing and wiped the bottle's sweat into his jeans. Soon enough, the weight of his double-barrel shotgun soothed his anxiety that had reared its ugly head. He waited behind the closed door, weapon loaded and ready, until he heard Dean's voice call out to him.
They had agreed upon a code word to use, to make sure Bobby could trust whoever was on the other side could be invited in. One could never be too sure, after all. The old hunter lowered the gun, relieved he could end his day without a fight.
At first glance, Bobby was happy to see the boys, until he noticed a third silhouette amongst them. Immediately, the initial relief turned sour, like the thrill of finding leftovers buried at the back of the fridge, only for the first whiff to absolutely obliterate your joy.
He and John hadn't parted on good terms, last they'd seen each other. In fact, this meeting of theirs started like the last one had ended - with a shotgun in Bobby's hands. His grip around it tightened again.
Truth be told, if John Winchester had shown up on his threshold alone, Bobby might actually have shot him this time. From what he could tell, John may have contributed the tiniest bit to Sam and Dean's existence, but calling him their father was like calling a house fire a cradle.
Dean's eyes went back and forth between the two; tension strung so tight, he anxiously glanced at the gun Bobby still held.
“Hey man, promise we're no monsters. Unless you'd put a steak in front of me right now. I'd tear into that like a werewolf so quick.”
The boy was always quick to joke, to smooth over sharp edges. To take a hit in order to buffer the impact on the next person. Bobby felt something stir in his heart at the thought.
“I know we had our disagreements, but would you take in my boys for the night? I'll just sleep in the car.” John rasped.
The trio looked tired, obviously fresh off a hunt. Cuts and bruises, tousled hair, dirt and blood on their clothes, the usual. Bobby had to grasp at any remaining tolerance for irritating company he could find at his age. He hadn't seen Sam and Dean in a while and he was sure they'd appreciate some hospitality. Lord knew how rarely hunters were granted any.
“Don't get your panties up in a bunch about it, Winchester. The house is big enough for the both of us.” Bobby relented.
Dean breathed a sigh of relief. A smile darted across his face.
“Man, am I glad to see you,” He gave Bobby a quick hug, after the latter put the firearm in its usual place. “Damn Cullens almost ganked our asses.”
“Yeah, I can smell that.” Bobby quipped, patting Dean on the back.
The house hadn't changed from last time they'd visited. Floorboards creaked under their heavy boots, the refrigerator hummed its tune loud enough to drown out the cicadas outside, and the overhead light fixtures were matte with dust. Despite this, Sam let himself melt into one of the chairs nearby. Bobby gave his shoulder a squeeze, which granted him a groan from the youngest Winchester. Whether from pain or pleasure, Bobby wasn't quite sure.
One by one, they filtered into the kitchen, where they were handed a beer each. Everyone joined Sam in getting comfortable, except for his brother.
Dean stood, eyes gleaming with antsy desire for something, despite his obvious exhaustion. Like an itchy wound he tried not to scratch. It made him restless.
“Hey, uh… she home?” he asked, trying (and failing) to act nonchalant.
Sam raised an amused eyebrow at him. Dean's voice might've sounded normal, but his eyes betrayed him. They seemed to have more life in them, whenever you were the topic of conversation. Even when he was dead on his feet. But his index finger drumming on the dining table said more than any word ever could have.
“Yeah, she's upstairs.” Bobby said.
“Awesome.” Dean muttered more to himself, than anything, unable to suppress the corner of his mouth twitching with relief. He was halfway across the room when Bobby grabbed him by the back of the jacket.
“No, you don't. She needs to sleep and you're not gonna wake her up.”
Dean's eyes darted around the room, caught off guard. His smile was as fake as the smoothness in his voice.
“Oh, come on Bobby, I just wanna say hi.”
“I wasn't talking about no beauty sleep, dimwit. She's hurt.”
Dean's face sank. His brows furrowed. A quick glance at John reminded him not to sound too worried. But God, he struggled to hide it.
“What? What do you mean she's hurt? What happened?”
Sam, although concerned about you in his own way, couldn't help but notice his father stirring where he sat. The oldest Winchester looked displeased.
“She's gonna be fine. If you let her sleep it off.” Bobby assured, voice a little softer than before.
He knew more about how much the both of you meant to each other, than either of you had admitted to before this. Anyone who saw you exist in the same room together could tell just by how you looked at each other. The lingering glances, the concerned glimmer in your eyes when you patched Dean up after a hunt, the tension in his shoulders as he stood in front of Bobby right this moment.
“You didn't answer my question.” Dean cocked his head to the side, voice tight and irritated.
“You Winchesters and your thick skulls, I swear.” Bobby sighed, exhausted. “You're not the only hunters in this house.”
Dean's chest heaved, his eyes full of concern.
“You let her hunt by herself?”
“Did that vamp take a bite out of your brain earlier or do you really think I'm that stupid, boy?”
A beat passed between the two. Then-
“Sit down, Dean.”
As if caught with his fingers in the cookie jar, Dean seemed to realize he'd made a mistake when dropping his act. He was worried sick about you now, but the disapproval of his father weighed heavy on his shoulders. And he could always see it in John's eyes, hear it in his voice. Always.
“Yes, Sir.” Dean cleared his throat and did as he was told, the fire in his gut suddenly doused.
“She's gonna be okay, son,” Bobby offered, “a friend of mine came by a couple of days ago, ‘nother hunter; Said he got a case and needed all the help he could get.”
Dean's jaw worked a great deal. He looked up at John, though not quite into his eyes.
“Then why's she hurt that bad? Hell, if you give me the name of that friend of yours, maybe I'll have to stop by his place sometime and thank him for taking such good care of her.”
His voice had gotten louder and angrier toward the end.
“Don't act like you've never gotten hurt on a hunt, just ‘cause you had backup.”
“Bobby's right,” Sam agreed, “I mean, look at us, we got banged up and we're three people.”
“Yeah, but not so badly she wouldn't be allowed to wake me up with a-”
Sam kicked him under the table. His brother winced.
“You're acting a fool over that orphan Bobby took in? That it?” John made the word 'orphan' sound particularly repulsive.
Bobby fixed his eyes on him, sharp and unforgiving. The oldest Winchester held his gaze.
“Dad,” Sam cut in, before anyone else could, “she's not some stranger. She's family.”
John scoffed, eyes darting to his oldest. Dean took a swig of his beer, still unable to meet his father's judging eyes.
“Remind me who that girl is again.”
“She has a name!” Sam challenged his father head on.
“And…? Why'd you take her in again?”
Sam was thankful Bobby cared enough about him and his brother to tolerate John, even when it was obvious Bobby would have rather let the shotgun answer for him.
“Does it matter? She's been with me fifteen years.”
Unimpressed, John nodded. He looked over at Dean again, who sat across from him.
“She your little girlfriend?”
Dean's face went pale. Sam couldn't remember the last time his older brother looked the way he did right then: a deer caught in the headlights.
“No! She's just…"Dean forced down a big gulp of beer, fingers tapping on the bottle in his hands afterwards, “we're friends. Always good to keep in touch, just in case.”
John stood up from where he sat, his voice eerily quiet.
“Get up.” He commanded.
“Dad, what are you doing?” Sam asked, concerned.
“Your brother and I are going to take a walk really quick.”
“John.” Bobby rose from his seat, too. He put a hand on Dean's shoulder, pushing him back into the chair, “It's pretty late for a walk, don't'cha think?”
“What, you think he's scared of the dark?”
“Let me rephrase, Winchester: if you open that door, you will not step over this threshold ever again.”
If looks could kill, both John and Bobby would have been dead before their bodies hit the ground.
“Dad, come on, this isn't necessary. Let's all calm down an-” Sam tried.
“I said get up. That's an order.”
And Dean just couldn't help himself. He stood, as if under a spell. He blindly followed every command, because that's what had kept Sam and himself alive for as long as he could remember. Certainly since John had given him his first: to take care of Sam.
This particular tone of his father's voice was etched into him like the memory of his first kill under John's supervision. Like the groves and scratches on his handgun, which he could take apart and put back together in the dark. Like the heat of a fire.
Like the knowledge that this is what he was, what his father needed him to be - obedient and unquestioning.
John's orders had always been the Winchester's version of the Ten Commandments to Dean. And anytime his father had lectured and punished him after a fuck-up during a case, his words had ingrained themselves into Dean's skin with a vicious sort of weight.
A dutiful ritual; kneeling on yet another dirty motel floor, crumbs digging into him like grains of rice, while begging God for forgiveness before bed.
***
Outside, stars speckled the black tarp of night, not unlike air holes poked through a piece of cloth covering a jar. A choir of cicadas screamed into the vast emptiness above, blind to their inevitable demise.
Baby reflected the warm light coming through Bobby's windows. Beautiful and sleek as ever.
John led his son to where she was parked and Dean hoped they'd go on a little drive; talk it out like father and son. Like he and Sam did, too, sometimes. But, as usual, John was ready to disappoint.
“I thought I raised you to be a lot smarter than this.”
“What are you even talking about?”
His father's hands were balled into fists and Dean's stomach turned at the sight; An old, breathing polaroid in his shaking hands, nostalgia filling him with fear and bile. A repeating memory he had tried to avoid but could never escape.
“I wondered why you were so eager to jump on this case, despite the fact we could've taken up those werewolf tracks a few- what? Hours away from Charleston, where we stayed?”
“Since when is it a bad thing to hunt down a whole nest of vampires? What's gotten into you?”
“You're asking me? I don't want my firstborn to get distracted and killed because he can't stop thinking about some random girl's legs around him!”
That gave Dean pause. John had never before been upset at him for being with a woman.
“Are you listening to yourself? I think about girls all the time and now it's a problem?”
“Don't bullshit me, Dean! You call her whenever you think I can't hear you. Always giving her an update on where we are at the moment. You wait until I'm in the bathroom or think I fell asleep. Makin’ sure she knows you're okay. And then you act like a damn mutt because she got hurt.”
A red-hot anger surged through Dean and coiled in on itself, ready to sink its fangs into living flesh; to tear it apart and make it bleed. Usually, he embraced this side of himself. While fighting monsters, offense always proved to be the best defense. Now, he stood before John.
“And letting someone know I'm okay is bad how exactly? Usually, that's what people do when you care about each other!”
John caught the verbal strike at him and the weight of his voice parried it immediately.
“Don't get smart with me, boy! She's not me or Sam, just some stray cat Bobby picked up off the side of the street!”
Before Dean knew it, he had his fist in John's collar.
“Don't you dare talk about her that way!”
“Look at yourself! You're acting like a goddamn teenager!”
“What the hell'd she ever do to you, huh?”
“Messed with my son's head to the point he thinks he's in love with some chick!” John shoved Dean away, brought distance between them before he continued. “You can't be with her, Dean! What'd you think is gonna happen here? You gonna knock her up and buy a house in Dallas and tend to some horses until you die? Live happily ever after?”
Exasperated, Dean ran his hands through his own hair. He couldn't believe his father was making such a fuss about you. Didn't he understand Dean was an excellent hunter, no matter what? Couldn't he see it?
“Of course not, dad! The hell's your problem? I'm a hunter, just like you, just like she is! We all know what this life is like! That there's no picket-fence-fairytale-happy-ending at the end of this road!”
Dean would have rather taken a dagger to the chest than admitted how much it hurt to agree with John on the matter. He'd only ever heard of a handful of retired hunters, because most of them didn't live to see the day.
Your relationship was in the hands of a merciless God, like a bug caught inside the glass cup of a child discovering what it means to have power over something smaller than themselves for the first time in their life.
“Then you're gonna stop whatever she made you think you have with each other and move on from it! No more phone calls, no more messages. We're leaving tomorrow morning and as far as I'm concerned? Stay away from Singer, too. Us Winchesters are better off by ourselves.”
“I can't believe you're being this stubborn! Bobby's our friend! They're both family!”
A heat slapped across Dean's face.
“If you say that one more time, it's not gonna be my palm anymore. We are family! Your mom, who got killed by a demon, was family. And we're gonna find this thing and get revenge; without you having your head up in the clouds, daydreaming about tying the knot. Did I make myself clear?”
Dean didn't answer. His veins were filled with molten lead, his pulse drummed in his ears so loud, he could barely hear John.
“Dean. Did I make myself clear?”
“You know, ‘m startin’ to think Sammy had a point.” He said.
“Say that again?”
“I just think you could cut me some slack, alright? I'm sorry about what happened to mom; I want this demon dead as much as you do! But you can't compa-”
Dean's back hit the metal of the Impala, abrupt and painful. The impact knocked the air out of his lungs.
“Do you think you're the first boy who sees a pretty girl bat her eyelashes and thinks what they got is special in some way? You think this shit's gonna last? I want to protect you from the pain that inevitably comes, when she gets ripped to pieces, eaten or burned, for fuck's sake! And I'm the bad guy? Really?”
There it was - something Dean hadn't ever admitted to himself out loud before. The first thing he'd done, after the whole thing with Sam and Jessica, was to call you. He always called you. To make sure you're safe and the house wasn't going up in flames. While researching, he always checked Sioux Falls’ obituaries.
John knew exactly where to hit him where it hurt. Because they were father and son, after all.
Dean couldn't stop the words that left his lips next. They sprung from somewhere buried deep inside him, six feet under; pushed past his soft heart and sharpened his teeth, aimed to hurt his father, his sun and guiding light. And he knew, he knew the fall was gonna hurt. His whole body braced for the nostalgic taste of blood in his mouth. A sick satisfaction spread through Dean's chest like poison; He deserved the punishment for not heeding his father's warning, but he was a Winchester. They couldn't help but to go down swingin’.
“Maybe what really pisses you off,” Dean rasped, seeing eye to eye with John, who still held him up against the car, “is seeing me care about anything other than what you tell me to.”
He heard his own nose break before the pain shot through his body. John let go of his jacket and his son hit the ground groaning in pain. He kneeled down next to Dean.
“You wanna act like Sam and run away from saving people's lives? Go ahead. You wanna play house? Be my guest. See how far that gets you. But don't you dare spam my phone with voicemails asking me to return your calls, when you got her blood on your hands.”
John fished the car keys from Dean's pocket and stepped over him to round Baby. He got the boys’ duffle bags from the trunk and dumped them next to Dean, who crawled away from the car bit by bit, trying to regain his bearings in the dark.
Sam came barreling through the door, looking for his brother as soon as he heard the Impala's engine running. He called out to Dean and watched John drive off into the night.
***
A thick streak of blood soaked into Dean's shirt, dead center on his chest. His eyes rivaled it in color, full of tears and shame.
While he patched up his brother, Sam heard Bobby say every possible curse, insult and bad word in existence.
“Next time I see’m, I'm gonna shoot the bastard, no questions asked! That son of a-”
He threw shut the freezer door. The sound drowned out the last of his sentence. He wrapped a bag of frozen peas in a dish towel and handed it to Dean.
“Thanks Bobby.” he rasped, his voice nasal and thick with pain.
“What'd he say to you? Did he really care that much about whether you guys are…” Sam felt Bobby's gaze like a hand on his shoulder and respectfully chose to omit details.
“‘Think he's jealous I'm the only one gettin’ some nookie ‘round here.” Dean grinned.
He caught Bobby's glare.
“Sorry, man. Should'a told you sooner.”
He grimaced and handed over Dean's beer.
“Ya think old Bobby didn't realize his own kid suddenly livened up whenever you've snuck into her room the night before?”
Unfortunately, Dean had made the mistake of taking a swig of his beer as Bobby spoke. He groaned in pain in between coughs and a few tears rolled down his cheeks.
“Sorry, son.” There was a comforting familiarity in the sting of Bobby's slaps to Dean's back.
Somehow, it made him feel better that Bobby paid him back with his own version of tough love, because Dean knew deep down that this was as bad as it was gonna get. And he was grateful for that.
“Don't worry about it.” Dean coughed. Then, when he'd caught his breath, he continued, encouraged by the lack of big emotions in Bobby's behavior.
“So you tellin’ me you knew all along that we-?”
“Dean, everyone knows.” Sam interrupted with a playful scoff. His brother's eyes darted between them both.
“You may be great hunters, but you're both shit at actin’, you an’ her.” Bobby added.
Dean let his head hang dramatically and the pain of instant regret zapped through his nose at the sudden movement. He hissed and gritted his teeth.
“Why'd you never say anything?” Dean groaned, blinking away new tears.
The swift, metallic pop of freshly opened beer bottles cut through the tension. Bobby sat back down and took a big sip of his.
“Didn't think I needed to tell you to treat her well. She wouldn't be smilin’ like that whenever you stop by, if you didn't already.”
Dean’s eyes searched Bobby's expression for mockery or sarcasm, but he only found heartfelt reassurance.
“I think dad already gave you enough of a talk.” Sam kicked at Dean's leg lightly.
The older Winchester grinned with anything but humor on his face; blank stare glued to the condensation on the bottle before him. He knocked back half of the beer in one go, to gulp down the memory of John's voice along with it.
To drown out the pounding ache of failure in his head.
***
Soon enough, they'd agreed to go to sleep. John had texted Sam the address and room number of the Motel he stayed at overnight and that he'd leave the Impala there for the boys to pick up the next day.
It was a small relief to Dean. The weight of his father's words made him feel hollow and used up inside. He was angry and conflicted - and he felt even angrier at himself for feeling conflicted to begin with!
He sat on the edge of the guest bed, one door down the hall from you. He couldn't let himself relax, muscles aching, leg bouncing to get some tension out of his body. And he tried with all his might to follow Bobby's order; tried to keep himself from checking on you, but was like he could feel your warmth radiating through the wood, walls thrumming with a pulse of their own, ever reaching for or retracting from him, depending on which of his thoughts bounced off the walls.
Growing up, they'd never stayed in any place long enough for him to make friends, let alone have a chance to explore the possibility of long-term romantic commitment. And even if he had, who could really want him to stick around? Need him, sure. But be chosen as a companion without him serving as a protector, a shield, a buffer? He couldn't even fathom it.
Dean had been told by people, especially women, that he's pretty - sexy, even- as he'd grown into his body and voice. Soon enough he'd figured out how to lean into the gruff-yet-charming part of himself that made ladies’ knees weak; how to dial his ‘Fuck Me’ eyes to the max without being sleazy.
He played the part for one act in their life, before disappearing without a trace. He knew how to scratch their itch; that it would grant him a temporary feeling of having performed well - of being good. The rose-red clawmarks on his back were his trophy following another outstanding delivery and he wore them like a badge of honor around Sam. Showing off that he- Dean, the good son, the great older brother, the greatest fling- was on his A game at all times.
Along their travels, they'd met you whenever they'd stopped by in Sioux Falls or when they ran into you on hunts in the most random places. And not only had you never cared for his playboy act, but you seemed like you genuinely cared about him, Sam and Bobby, too. It confused Dean to no end. He often wondered what you were itching for, if it really wasn't him, and how to give it to you.
Sometimes, you had held Dean's hand while Sam sutured his wounds, gripped his shoulders after a nightmare, when he'd needed an anchor to weather the storm inside his head. And without fail, after each successful hunt spent together, you just left. With nothing else asked of either Sam or him, apart to watch out for one another, so you'd be able to see them again.
Over the years, his lingering gazes had been reciprocated, he felt. But whenever he leaned in close enough for you to bridge the gap with a kiss, you'd just give him another gorgeous smile. One of those that made his chest feel all strange- fuller somehow. Again, never asking anything of him. You just existed together, next to them. Doing research, eating greasy food in run-down diner booths, sleeping in motel beds smelling of mildew and other unmentionables. Sometimes he'd catch you looking at him first, through Baby's rear view mirror, and you held his gaze. Never with lust or need, never with disappointment.
One time, during a hunt in Nevada, you'd gotten shot and Dean had never felt the same kind of pain seething his skin; like he'd been dropped into ice cold water from sixty feet high. Numb and shaking, he'd caught you before your head could split open on the concrete floor.
The brothers had brought you to a hospital, of course, and Dean still remembered how genuinely terrified he'd been. Of you not making it, of calling Bobby and admitting to the most profound failure: not having shielded you, not having taken the hit in your stead.
But Bobby had been anything but angry, which, again, totally confused Dean to this day. In fact, Bobby had been relieved; grateful to him and Sammy for saving you and for bringing you back to him.
You hadn't been angry at him, either. You hadn't screamed at him, hadn't told him what he knew deep in his gut - that he was a fuck-up, a fraud. An unreliable and useless good-for-nothing. On the contrary. You had embraced him, asked if he was hurt, too, or if he'd gotten by with just a scare.
That was the moment, he thought to himself, he knew the bond you shared was something entirely different from anything he'd experienced before.
Something profound.
***
Dean checked his phone. Almost an hour had gone by. Something snapped inside him. Before he knew it, he was back on his feet. Led by the magnetic pull from behind his navel.
The strip of light under your door made Dean wonder whether you'd actually been awake this whole time. Frustrated, he thought about how he might've avoided the whole argument with his father, if only Bobby hadn't kept him from coming to see you earlier.
He knocked on the wood ever so slightly, just in case you were actually sleeping with a light on. You didn't respond, so he pushed down the handle as gently as he could and hoped the old thing wouldn't creak.
Dean's care was rewarded with the sight of you, sleeping soundly, next to a burning candle on your nightstand. Thankfully, it was one of those in a glass cup.
His heart hammered against his sternum. He remembered the first few times he'd snuck into your room, afraid of getting caught by Bobby.
At that, he also remembered his father's words and swallowed the shame burning his insides, forcing himself to leave all memories behind the now closed door. Nothing mattered right now, except for you.
He took his time to take in the room, your room, with all the little knick-knacks and trinkets collected on hunts throughout the years.
It was your first ever home, you'd told him once. Your relatives had done unspeakable things to you, dropped you on the side of the highway out of Sioux Falls and left you to die in the scorching summer sun. That's where Bobby had gathered you, fifteen years ago; nursed you back to health with the gentle hands of a man who'd never had children of his own, but secretly wished he did, Dean suspected.
Your plant collection took up every bit of space on the windowsill. Some of the bigger ones stood in the corner of the room, vibrant and shiny. A cork board hung above your desk, littered in memories. A few years ago, Sam had gifted you a polaroid camera. Dean had supplied the film.
‘Best birthday gift ever! Thanks guys!’ you'd told them through tears of joy. He still remembered the bone crushing hug and your excited hopping in place.
He swallowed his laugh at the memory and took a closer look at the pictures pinned to the board.
One showed a grumpy Bobby, a birthday cake in front of him that had an ungodly amount of candles stuck on top, because you affectionately called him your “old man”. The off-center party hat really sold the sourness in his expression.
Another one caught the most heinous crime you'd ever committed against Dean: Sam had captured you drawing a crooked mustache on him while he was sleeping (and drunk, if he remembered right). Thankfully, with non-permanent ink.
A few pictures showed people Dean hadn't ever met himself and he wondered if they were just other hunters to you. Some showed people's arm around your shoulders, a third party having caught the moment. Other pictures were candid snaps of these people reading, driving and so on.
Multiple street cats stared back at Dean, like they had at you while saving these moments for later.
One of the photos in particular looked like it had seen better days. Almost like you had carried it around in your pocket for some time - it showed him and Sammy sitting next to each other in the booth of some diner. A rather unflattering capture, with Dean's gullet full to the brim with half of the burger he held in his hands and sauce spilling over his lip in one corner of his mouth. And then Sam, mid blink and mid rant about some piece of lore he'd read up on.
Dean's vision blurred. Surprised, he rubbed the emerging tears from his eyes. He truly was exhausted, he figured. Ignoring how much his heart felt like a wild falcon beating its wings, trapped in his ribcage. He tried his best to get a grip on it, but the damn thing always had a mind of its own.
Finally, he couldn't stay away from you any longer and sat down on the floor next to your bed, his hands instinctively reaching to touch you, to make sure you were alive and real and not another memory lost to time.
One of his hands rested on your head, gingerly brushing his thumb over your temple. The other found one of your hands and interlaced your fingers as best he could, while you were still unconscious.
He leaned in real close and placed a gentle kiss on your cheek.
You looked so beautiful, even in your sleep. Despite the heaviness of his eyelids, he couldn't get enough of the sight of you sleeping peacefully, painted with the gentle warmth of candlelight.
To his dismay (and absolute delight) you opened your eyes. Your hand twitched in his.
“Didn't mean to wake you, sorry. Don't tell Bobby I did. Our little secret, alright?”
His words were unintelligible to you, still half asleep and disoriented.
“Dean?” Your voice was weak, strained. It made him place another kiss on your cheek.
“Missed me?”
You forced yourself to lean on your elbow, but the sharp pain in your side made you wince.
“Hey, woah woah woah- easy there, Tiger,” a gentle hand on your shoulder pushed you back into the mattress without any effort, “can't let you get outta bed. Doctor's orders.”
“Dean…”
You placed your hand on his cheek and he held your wrist. His thumb brushed over your pulse point and he kissed your palm, before leaning in and closing his eyes. For the first time that day, he was able to take a deep breath. It made his skin tingle all over.
“Can't believe it.” You said.
For a moment, Dean completely lost himself in your expression. Pure adoration gleamed in your eyes. He felt as if he'd ridden into town on his black steed, your knight in shining armor, to rescue you from a dragon. God knew he would, if given the chance.
But he wasn't here to save you, because you weren't a helpless damsel locked away in a tower and your old man wasn't a tyrant, keen on making you bleed if you tried to look at the world beyond his iron grip.
“What was that, sweetheart?” He asked, after a few beats between you were spent lost in thought.
“Prayed before bed,” you spoke up a little louder, “prayed for another dream of you. Can't believe it. Haven't had one in a long time.”
Surprised, he grinned at you. You weren't a devout believer in no Heavenly Father watching over you, he knew. Of course, with the kind of job you guys had, it was hard not to at least believe in the possibility of there being one. But the thought of you not only dreaming of him, but also praying for more made him want to kiss you stupid.
To think you'd spend the time before bed kneeling by it, hands clasped, asking for anyone willing to listen to make sure Dean returned to you, at least in your sleep, if not in real life.
A warmth dripped down his spine like honey. A stark contrast to the bitterness life had raised him on; To the sharp, metallic scent of blood that clung to him no matter how hard he scrubbed his hands.
“So, we're in a dream right now? This feel like a dream to you?” Dean rasped, voice heavy with reverence.
You nodded and smiled. Relishing in the sight of his beautiful face.
“Has to be. You're far away and haven't called in a while.”
“Yeah, well. We took care of a vamp nest. Also, Sammy, …dad and I. We're reelin’ in a big fish right now.”
You hummed, blinked up at him slowly.
“I miss you.” You admitted.
Dean couldn't stop himself from kissing you properly this time. You sighed into his mouth and caressed the back of his neck, like you knew he liked. He gulped down every drop of affection you were willing to offer him, starved for it as he was. Gorging on the noises you made, savoring the taste of comfort still lingering on your tongue.
Before he could lose himself too much in your warmth, though, you pushed him off a bit to catch your breath.
“Missed you too, gorgeous.” He panted, “Wish I'd gotten here earlier. Would’a gone on that hunt with you.”
You smiled up at him, knowingly. “Yeah? You really would have agreed to take me on a hunt?”
He pursed his lips. Thought about it for a second.
“Nah, not a chance. Pretty girl like you shouldn't have to get'er hands dirty.”
Dean loved hearing you laugh. Especially when he was the reason why. It was the only sound he ever wanted to hear again. Unfortunately, it didn't last long, due to the pain that made you wince with regret. He placed a kiss to your temple.
“Wouldn't'a gotten hurt if I'd'a been there.”
“You should see the other guy.”
Something ugly reared its visage inside his chest. He tensed like second nature, ready to cut the head off the snake coiling around his heart.
“What, the other hunter? That incompetent dickhead who didn't watch out for you?”
You slapped his chest, grinning.
“No, silly! I meant the spirit! And we did try to be careful,” There was a soft reassurance in your voice now, “It was just one of those days, you know?”
Dean breathed, forced himself to trust your words. Absentmindedly, he put his palm on your cheek, gently brushing over your brow ridge with his thumb.
“The vamps could throw a mean right hook, too, huh?”
You nodded at his nose, which was very obviously freshly bruised. His jaw tensed. You could see shadows dancing on his cheek.
A rare vulnerability showed in his eyes, just for a second, but he felt you seeing through the disguise he wore like armor. The ever-present weight hanging off his neck, cutting into his shoulders, wearing him down day by day.
“Yeah, well… good ol’ Edward might look like a stringbean on screen but he sure can fight.”
It was moments like these, when you let your gaze roam over his face, studying him, that he felt threadbare and unsure of what his next line should be. And it scared him like no monster could ever hope to achieve.
“Poor baby.” You cooed with a knowing look.
One that said: I know there is something you're not telling me and I will sit with you and hold your hand until you're ready.
And that was more than Dean had ever received in his entire life- the gift of unwavering patience and companionship, despite his cloak and mask.
God, he thought, whatever she sees in me, please let her keep seeing it.
“How long are you gonna sit on the floor, by the way?”
He didn't need to be asked twice. Gingerly, he helped you move over enough for him to lay on the bed with you. The both of you were extra careful not to irritate each other's wounds.
“I hope I never forget this dream. Feels so real.” You whispered and he smiled into the kiss you pressed to his lips.
“Please come back soon. I miss you so much, Dean.”
“Don't worry. We're gonna see each other again sooner than you think, I promise.” His tone matched yours now. Quiet words shared just between you two and whoever might be listening up above.
The two of you lost any sense of time, as you held onto one another. With you, the only heat on his face stemmed from your soft lips pressing kisses to his flushed skin.
Truth be told, when he'd made the comment about ‘being the only one gettin’ some nookie’ earlier, he'd vastly overstated how far the two of you had gotten in your… whatever this was.
Stolen glances and chaste kisses? Yes. Arms around each other like two people shipwrecked, after each nightmare or hunt gone awry? Absolutely. But the idea of sex (one of the few things in life he knew how to excel at) with you made him feel as if he were a blushing virgin again. Untouched and unmarred.
But you never asked for him to take the next step, for him to be your bread and play. Never scratched or scorched his skin, because you were unlike any creature he'd ever dealt with before.
Eventually, Dean opened his eyes and noticed the candle had flickered out. And in the dead of night, you gripped each other tightly, knowing this was something worth holding onto, something worth living for.
He pulled back to place his lips on your temple one more time.
