Like real people do
ᯓᡣ𐭩
Dean winchester x reader
Warnings: Slightly suggestive content, fluff, language, angst(?)
Song 𖹭.ᐟ
Authors note: this man deserved his happy ending holy shittt (also didn't proof read thissss because im too fcking lazy so have fun)
Dean winchester is not what you'd call "civilized."
He eats with his hands, curses at the television, and thinks throw pillows are some kind of cruel joke. He's got scars on top of scars, trauma buried under charm, and the emotional range of a brick wall wrapped in flannel.
But he's yours.
And God, he's trying.
It starts with a house.
A real one. With walls that don't smell like mildew or gun oil. A porch with actual flowers you planted. A backyard big enough for a dog and a busted up grill Dean found on the side of the road and claimed like it was some precious artifact.
"You sure it's okay?" He'd asked you when you showed him the place. "Like... I don't wanna ruin it."
You kissed him slow. "You can't ruin something you belong in, Dean"
Mornings are his new battlefield.
The enemy; a sleepy, pre-coffee version of himself and a mischievous labrador retriever named bruno who refuses to go potty unless Dean stands outside with him like a canine security escort.
“Seriously?” Dean grumbles at 6:15 a.m., standing barefoot in the dewy grass in pajama pants and a robe he swears he didn’t steal from a motel in Kansas.
Bruno stares at him.
Dean stares back.
“Do your business, man. I got eggs on the stove.”
Bruno takes a majestic dump. Dean mutters a reverent, “Atta boy,” and heads back inside, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.
You’re waiting in the kitchen in one of his old tees, leaning on the counter with that slow smile he’d kill for.
“Coffee’s hot,” you say, handing him a mug. “Eggs probably aren’t.”
He sips and grunts appreciatively. “You know I’m still not convinced people actually do this every day.”
“What, make breakfast?”
“Wake up. Be normal. Function before noon.”
You snort. “Welcome to real life, Winchester.”
He kisses your cheek, pulls you close. “Real life with you doesn’t suck.”
Dean's idea of breakfast was chaotic.
Eggs? Sure. Bacon? Absolutely. But the toaster is his nemesis, and one time he put syrup on scrambled eggs because he got distracted by your legs.
"Don't look at me like that," he said, mouth full of syrupy egg. "You walk into my kitchen like a damn dream and expect me to focus?"
"I walked in for juice."
"And I saw God."
He doesn't always win against the kitchen. But he always feeds you. Even if it burnt. Even if the smoke alarm screams like a banshee. You once caught him using a spatula as a fly swatter and then still flipped pancakes with it.
"They're crispy, baby." He said with a wink.
"They're biohazards."
But you ate them. Because they were made with so much love, it was practically oozing out of the batter.
He's still learning the rhythm of normal.
He does laundry, but he forgets to separate the whites. He mows the lawn shirtless because he says, "It feels better," and then accuses you of ogling him when you watch from the porch with an iced tea and zero shame.
He gets home from his job at the auto shop every day at 5:30 p.m. on the dot. You swear it's muscle memory–like the hunter in him still treats routine like armor.
You hear the impala pull up, and your heart skips every time. Still. Always.
He walks in, a little greasy, a little tired, smelling like motor oil and sun. He drops his keys in the bowl by the door and finds you instantly, like he's magnetized.
"Hey, sweetheart."
Then it's arms around your waist, nose in your neck, lips grazing yours like he's never known anything softer.
The evenings are slower now.
You used to think Dean would always live fast–bleed fast, love fast, die fast. That he'd never learn how to slow down.
But he has. For you.
Now, he eats dinner at the table. Rubs your feet on the couch. Watches reruns of jeopardy with an intense competitiveness that is both alarming and endearing.
"You'd make a great contestant," you say one night.
"Hell yeah," he grins. "As long as none of the categories are French food or 18th century poetry."
"Or basic geography."
"Low blow."
And the nights?
Dean makes love like it's the first and last time every time.
Slow. Reverent. Like you're something holy and he's the last sinner on earth.
He's not rough anymore–he doesn't have to be. The urgency is gone. He knows he has time. Knows you're not running. Knows he's safe here, in your arms.
He undresses you like a man learning a new language. Touches you like you're the first soft thing he's ever been allowed to hold.
"I didn't know it could feel like this," he whispers one night, your bodies tangled in sheets and moonlight. "Like I'm not pretending. Like, I'm just... me."
You cradle his face. "You are. You're exactly who you're supposed to be."
He kisses you like a thank‐you.
Like a prayer.
But it's not all serious.
He tries to act like the tough guy still, but you've caught him slow dancing with bruno in the living room to some scratchy Fleetwood Mac vinyl. You said nothing. Just watched.
He secretly likes candle stores. Like, really likes them.
You once found a yankee candle receipt in his jacket. He blamed a coworker, but now your house smells like cedarwood and vanilla, and someone is definitely lighting them when you're not looking.
And don't get started on the "Honey Do list."
"I fixed the leaky sink," he announces one Saturday.
"It's still dripping."
He pauses. "I distracted it."
"By duct taping it?"
"Its emotional stable now."
And every now and then.
He still wakes up from nightmares.
Sometimes shaking. Sometimes quiet and still as death.
You never ask. You just pull him into you. Let him bury his face in your chest. Stroke his hair until he exhales.
"You okay?" You whisper.
He always nods. "Yeah. Just... glad I'm here. With you. Not anywhere else."
Dean winchester isn't normal.
He's a mess of instincts and damage, of snarky jokes and quiet tenderness. He's clumsy with his feelings and forgets trash day and once got stung by a bee because he tried to smell a rose just to see what the hype was about.
But he loves you with everything he has.
And for you? He tries.
He lets the dog out every morning. Kisses you like a promise. Works a normal job and comes home to the only kind of heaven he ever believed; you.
He builds crooked bookshelves and burns the pancakes, but he holds your hand through all of it, and tries
Tries to be soft.
Tries to be real.
Like real people do.
