would love any angst to fluff dean
maybe something about you feeling like you don’t fit in with the hockey boys group and that maybe Allie was a better fit because she’s still around and yiu can see how neatly she fits in
Aww I love thissss!
Word count: 3202
・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・゜
Dean Di Laurentis had never understood silence.
Not really.
Silence made him suspicious.
It made him talk faster, louder, with more hand gestures than any conversation reasonably required. It made him fill empty rooms with music, jokes, stories that became more exaggerated each time he told them. Silence, to Dean, was an open wound. Something that needed fixing before it became dangerous.
You, on the other hand, had always found silence comforting.
Not lonely silence.
Not the kind that waited beside an unanswered phone or sat across from you at the dinner table after someone had said something cruel.
But the gentle kind.
The kind that existed when rain tapped softly against windows. When you were sitting beside someone you trusted and neither of you needed to prove you belonged there. When a room was quiet because it was full of people who understood that words were not always the same thing as connection.
Dean had learned that about you slowly.
At first, he had thought you were shy.
Everyone did.
You were not.
You simply did not feel the need to speak every thought that crossed your mind, which was apparently an unusual quality among Dean’s friends.
The first time he brought you to the hockey house, Dean introduced you like you were a prize he had won.
“This,” he announced, throwing an arm around your shoulders, “is Y/N. She is brilliant, terrifying, and refuses to laugh at my best jokes.”
“They are not your best jokes,” you said.
Dean looked down at you, offended.
“You have heard one joke.”
“And it was enough.”
Logan laughed from the couch.
Garrett’s mouth twitched around the rim of his beer.
Tucker looked up from his phone and said, “I like her.”
You smiled politely, though your stomach had already started tying itself into knots.
The hockey house was loud in a way that made your thoughts scatter.
Music came from the kitchen. Someone was shouting upstairs. Dean’s friends moved through rooms like they belonged to every inch of them, leaning against counters and stealing food from one another’s plates and talking over each other without ever seeming to lose the thread of the conversation.
You sat beside Dean on the couch.
You listened.
You smiled when it felt right.
You added a comment here and there, usually something dry enough that people took a second to realise you were joking.
Sometimes they laughed.
Sometimes they did not.
The times they did not stayed with you longer.
A joke that fell flat felt like stepping onto a stair you thought was there and finding only air.
By the end of the night, you were exhausted.
Dean walked you home, his fingers laced with yours beneath the yellow streetlights.
“You were quiet tonight,” he said.
You glanced at him.
“So were you.”
He stopped walking.
“I literally gave a ten-minute speech about why nachos are the perfect food.”
“You did. It was very moving.”
“You didn’t laugh.”
“I was processing the emotional depth of it.”
Dean narrowed his eyes.
“You’re making fun of me.”
“I would never.”
He grinned.
Then he kissed your temple.
“You know they like you, right?”
Your heart stumbled.
You looked away before he could see it.
“Sure.”
Dean did not notice the lie.
Not then.
・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・゜
You liked Dean’s friends.
That was the problem.
If you had disliked them, it would have been easier.
You could have shrugged it off. Told yourself they were too loud, too chaotic, too wrapped up in their own world to care about what you thought.
But Garrett was kind in quiet ways.
He always made sure you had a drink when everyone else was too distracted to notice. He listened when you spoke, even when your voice was soft. He remembered that you hated pickles and picked them off your burger without comment when the diner got your order wrong.
Logan was easier to understand.
He had a laugh that filled rooms and a way of making people feel included without making it obvious he was doing it. He would sit beside you at parties and ask about your classes, your writing, the books you were reading.
Tucker did not speak much either.
That helped.
Sometimes you would sit near him in the living room while everyone else talked around you, and he would look over and say something so quiet and blunt that it made you laugh.
“You look like you want to leave,” he told you once.
“I do.”
“Same.”
Then Dean had appeared from the kitchen wearing a ridiculous hat and holding a tray of shots.
You and Tucker had exchanged a look.
“Tragic,” you said.
Tucker nodded.
“Tragic.”
But even with all of that, you could not shake the feeling that you were an interruption.
A quiet note in a song that had always been loud.
Dean’s world had existed before you.
It had been full of people who knew exactly how to handle him. People who understood his jokes, matched his energy, shouted back when he shouted first. People who could keep up with him without needing to stop and catch their breath.
People like Allie.
You had met Allie a few times.
She was beautiful in a way that made you feel suddenly aware of your own hands. Of your hair. Of the way you always seemed to wear the wrong thing when you were nervous.
She was bright and quick and easy around Dean’s friends. She knew how to throw herself into a conversation. She teased Dean without hesitation. She laughed loudly, freely, like she had never once worried whether anyone wanted to hear her.
And Dean had loved her.
You knew that.
Everyone knew that.
It was not something anyone said often, but it lived in the spaces between conversations. In old photographs. In the way Dean’s friends sometimes mentioned her name with a softness that made your chest tighten.
You never blamed Allie.
That would have been easier too.
She had not done anything wrong.
She had simply been there before you.
And sometimes, when you sat in the hockey house while everyone laughed around you, you wondered if Dean missed the version of his life where loving someone had looked effortless.
You wondered if he looked at you and wished you were louder.
Warmer.
Less complicated.
More like her.
The thought became a splinter.
Small at first.
Then impossible to ignore.
・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・゜
The fight happened on a Sunday.
It had been raining all day.
Not the soft kind of rain that made things feel clean. This was heavy rain. Angry rain. The kind that turned sidewalks into mirrors and made the sky look bruised.
Dean had invited you to dinner at Garrett and Hannah’s apartment.
“It’ll be low-key,” he had promised.
“Low-key according to you means no one breaks furniture.”
“That happened once.”
“Twice.”
“Allegedly.”
You had almost said no.
You had spent the whole weekend feeling raw, though you could not have explained why. Maybe it was the rain. Maybe it was the assignment you were behind on. Maybe it was the message your mother had sent earlier that day, asking why you never called anymore.
Or maybe it was because Dean had mentioned Allie the night before.
Not in a cruel way.
Not even in a meaningful way.
He had been telling a story about a road trip, laughing as he described how Allie had convinced him to sing karaoke at a gas station.
You had laughed too.
At the right time.
In the right place.
But afterward, the name stayed in your head like a song you hated but could not stop hearing.
Dinner was exactly what Dean promised.
Low-key by his standards.
Garrett cooked pasta. Hannah poured wine. Logan arrived late with a bag of garlic bread and no apology. Tucker sat at the end of the table, quiet as always.
Allie came too.
You had not known she would be there.
Dean did not seem surprised when she walked in.
He hugged her.
Briefly.
Normally.
Still, something in you folded inward.
Allie sat across from you.
She smiled.
“You look pretty,” she said.
You blinked.
“Thank you.”
“I love your sweater.”
“Oh.” You looked down at it. “It’s old.”
“It doesn’t look old.”
“That’s because I only wear it in low lighting.”
There was a small pause.
Then Logan laughed.
“Okay, that was good.”
You smiled faintly.
But Allie’s expression shifted, just slightly, like she did not know whether you were joking.
You hated yourself for noticing.
Dinner continued.
Dean was loud. Dean was charming. Dean told stories with his hands, his face, his whole body. Allie laughed at every one of them. Garrett rolled his eyes affectionately. Hannah leaned into him.
You tried to join in.
You really did.
But every time you spoke, you heard yourself too clearly.
Every sarcastic comment sounded sharper than you intended. Every quiet answer felt like proof that you did not belong there.
At one point, Dean reached for your hand beneath the table.
You pulled away.
Not dramatically.
Not enough for anyone else to see.
But Dean felt it.
His eyes found yours.
“What’s wrong?” he asked softly.
“Nothing.”
The word came too quickly.
Dean knew you well enough to hear the lie.
But he did not press.
Not in front of everyone.
That should have made you grateful.
Instead, it made you angry.
Because he was being kind.
Because he was always kind when you were already halfway convinced you did not deserve it.
By the time you left, the rain had turned colder.
Dean drove you back to your apartment in silence.
The windshield wipers moved back and forth like a metronome.
You stared out the window.
Dean kept glancing at you.
Finally, he pulled over outside your building.
“Talk to me.”
You laughed once.
It sounded wrong.
“About what?”
“Whatever is going on.”
“Nothing is going on.”
“Y/N.”
You turned toward him.
The tenderness in his voice was unbearable.
“What do you want me to say, Dean?”
“The truth would be a good start.”
You looked at him.
Rain ran down the windows, blurring the streetlights into gold smears.
“The truth?” you said. “Fine. I feel like I’m constantly trying to fit into a life that was not made for me.”
Dean went quiet.
“What does that mean?”
“It means your friends are great. Allie is great. Everyone is great.”
“And?”
“And I’m not.”
His face changed.
“Where is this coming from?”
You looked away.
“Nowhere.”
“Do not do that.”
“Do what?”
“Pretend you’re fine until you’re furious at me for not reading your mind.”
The words were not cruel.
But they struck something tender.
You felt your anger rise quickly, hot and ugly.
“Maybe if you paid attention, you would not have to read my mind.”
Dean’s jaw tightened.
“I do pay attention.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
You laughed again.
“Right.”
Dean looked at you.
His eyes were hurt now.
Not angry.
Hurt.
“You think I don’t notice you?”
“I think you notice when I’m standing next to you. I don’t think you notice anything else.”
“That is not fair.”
“No, what is not fair is bringing me around people who all clearly wish I was someone else.”
Dean stared at you.
“What?”
“Do not act surprised.”
“Who wishes you were someone else?”
You swallowed.
Then said the thing you had been trying not to say for months.
“Everyone liked Allie.”
Dean’s face went still.
The rain filled the silence.
“You think my friends don’t like you because of Allie?”
“I think she made sense with you.”
“You make sense with me.”
You looked at him.
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
“You are loud, Dean. You are everywhere all the time. You make friends in grocery store lines. You talk to strangers like you have known them your whole life.”
He said nothing.
“And I sit there like an idiot trying to figure out when I am supposed to speak.”
“You are not an idiot.”
“I know I’m awkward.”
“You are not awkward.”
“You do not get to decide that.”
“No,” Dean said quietly. “But I do get to decide whether I love being around you.”
The word love made your chest tighten.
You had not said it to each other yet.
Not clearly.
Not like that.
Dean seemed to realise what he had said at the same time you did.
But he did not take it back.
You should have softened.
Instead, you got cruel.
Because fear had always made you sharp.
“Maybe you love the idea of me,” you said. “Maybe you like having someone quiet around because it makes you feel even more interesting.”
Dean flinched.
You saw it.
And still, you continued.
“Maybe you just got bored after Allie. Maybe I am just the easier option because I don’t ask for much.”
“Stop,” he said.
His voice was soft.
That made it worse.
You shook your head.
“No. You want the truth, right?”
“I want you to stop trying to hurt me because you are hurting.”
The words hit you so hard that you went silent.
Dean looked at you.
His eyes were wet, but he was not angry.
That almost broke you.
“You do this,” he said gently. “You get scared, and you start saying things you do not mean because you think if you ruin it first, it will hurt less when it ends.”
Your throat closed.
“I do not—”
“You do.”
You looked down at your hands.
Dean reached across the console, but he did not touch you.
He left his hand there between you.
An offering.
Not a demand.
“I know you don’t mean those things,” he said. “I know you are scared. And I know you feel safe enough with me to let it all out.”
A tear slipped down your cheek.
You wiped it away quickly.
“I’m sorry.”
Dean’s expression softened.
“I know.”
“I’m really sorry.”
“I know.”
“I did mean some of it.”
“I know.”
You looked at him.
His voice was quiet.
“But not the part where you think I don’t love you. Not the part where you think my friends want someone else for me.”
You could not breathe properly.
Dean finally took your hand.
His fingers wrapped around yours.
Warm.
Steady.
“You are not Allie,” he said. “You are not supposed to be.”
Your eyes burned.
“She was important to me,” he continued. “She will always be someone I cared about. But that does not mean she is who I want now.”
You looked at him.
Dean squeezed your hand.
“I want you,” he said. “Your weird little pauses before you say something devastatingly sarcastic. The way you look like you are judging every room you walk into. The way you pretend you do not care, even though you care more than anyone I know.”
A laugh broke through your tears.
Dean smiled.
“There she is.”
“I’m horrible,” you whispered.
“No.”
“I just said awful things to you.”
“You said hurt things.”
“That is not better.”
“No,” he admitted. “It is not.”
You waited.
Dean looked down at your joined hands.
“But I know you. And I know when you are trying to push me away because you are afraid I will leave.”
Your throat tightened.
“I don’t deserve you.”
Dean made a face.
“Do not say that.”
“It’s true.”
“It is not.”
“You are too good at this.”
“At what?”
“Being kind when I am being unbearable.”
He smiled sadly.
“You are not unbearable.”
You looked at him.
Dean’s thumb brushed over your knuckles.
“You are allowed to have bad days,” he said. “You are allowed to be scared. But you do not have to make yourself smaller just because you think people will like you more that way.”
The rain softened outside.
Not stopped.
Just softened.
You leaned across the console and pressed your face into his shoulder.
Dean held you immediately.
One hand in your hair.
The other around your back.
You cried quietly into his jacket.
“I’m sorry,” you said again.
“I know.”
“I love you.”
Dean went still.
Then he pulled back enough to look at you.
“You do?”
You laughed through your tears.
“You are making this difficult.”
“I need clarification.”
“Yes,” you whispered. “I love you.”
Dean’s face changed.
All the hurt. All the worry.
It softened.
“I love you too,” he said.
Then he kissed you.
Not like a solution.
Not like the fight had never happened.
Like a promise to keep trying.
Like he was choosing you in the rain, in the mess, in every difficult thing you had been afraid to say aloud.
・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・゜
The next time you went to the hockey house, you almost did not go.
You stood outside with Dean’s hand in yours, staring at the front door.
Music played inside.
Someone shouted.
Dean looked down at you.
“You okay?”
“No.”
He smiled.
“Great. Me neither.”
“You live here.”
“Exactly. Terrifying.”
You laughed.
Dean squeezed your hand.
“They like you.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“No.”
He grinned.
“Close enough.”
Inside, the house was warm and loud.
Logan was in the kitchen. Garrett sat on the couch with Hannah. Tucker leaned against the wall, holding a drink.
Everyone looked up when you walked in.
Your stomach dropped.
Then Dean announced, “She is here, and she has agreed not to insult anyone for at least ten minutes.”
You looked at him.
“I agreed to nothing.”
Logan laughed.
Garrett smiled.
Tucker said, “That was less than ten seconds.”
You looked at him.
“Good observation. You should write that down.”
For one second, there was silence.
Then Tucker laughed.
Not a polite laugh.
A real one.
Logan nearly choked on his drink.
Garrett shook his head, smiling.
Dean looked at you like you had hung the moon.
You felt warmth rise to your face.
But this time, you did not look away.
Later, you sat on the couch between Dean and Hannah while everyone argued about movies.
Logan insisted that a certain action film was objectively perfect.
“It is not,” you said.
“It is.”
“The plot is held together by explosions and male insecurity.”
Dean made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a cough.
Garrett looked at you.
“That is actually accurate.”
Logan pointed at you.
“You are banned from movie night.”
“Thank God.”
Everyone laughed.
And this time, you laughed too.
Not because you had finally become louder.
Not because you had learned how to fit yourself into every space.
But because, slowly, you were beginning to understand something Dean had been trying to tell you all along.
You did not have to perform belonging.
You were already there.
Dean’s hand found yours beneath the blanket draped over your legs.
His fingers laced with yours.
You looked at him.
He smiled.
The hockey house was still loud.
The walls were still thin.
The world was still full of moments where you would probably overthink every word you said.
But Dean sat beside you, warm and steady and entirely too bright.
And for once, silence did not feel like something you had to fill.
It felt like home.