You're the one that I want
Dean x Reader Summary: Dean flirts with everyone… except you. Suddenly, the guy who’s usually so smooth can’t seem to string two words together, and Sam has to step in to keep things from getting completely out of hand. Genre: Fluff ♡ Word Count: 3.1K
Sam should really get out of the bunker more, maybe get an actual hobby that isn’t research or running laps before breakfast. Most importantly, he should probably spend less time around you and his brother before his last functioning brain cells decide to mutiny.
He’s blending a pile of vegetables in the kitchen when Dean walks in and… just stands there. Staring.
Sam can feel it, Dean’s gaze boring into the side of his head. He keeps blending. If he ignores it, maybe, just maybe, his brother will go away.
He does not.
There’s only so much liquefying you can do to a zucchini, so eventually Sam gives up and turns around. “What?”
Dean doesn’t miss a beat. “Do I look approachable to you?”
There it is.
Sam exhales through his nose. “What are you talking about?”
Dean isn’t even looking at him; his eyes are fixed somewhere over Sam’s shoulder. “I mean, I think I am. I guess. But maybe I’m not. Maybe I look… I dunno… standoffish.”
Sam blinks. “Standoffish.”
“I’m just saying, there’s a line, okay? Too friendly, and you look like some creepy guy offering free candy. Not friendly enough, and people think you’re gonna stab ‘em.”
Sam shuts off the blender, grabs his smoothie, and sits. Dean drops into the chair across from him, and he stares expectantly, eyebrows up.
“Dean, man... I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Okay, if you were a girl and saw me at a bar—”
“Great. Can’t imagine a better start,” Sam mutters.
“—would you think I was approachable? Like… someone you’d walk up to?”
Sam looks down into his glass, searching for the strength to keep going. Nothing. No strength. Just spinach.
“Dean… where is this coming from?”
Dean Winchester, the man who has picked up so many women he's lost count. And yet here he is, acting like he needs a pep talk.
Finally, Sam sighs, giving his brother at least the courtesy of an honest answer. “You’re approachable. You’re… you. People like you.”
Dean’s expression doesn’t ease at the reassurance. If anything, he looks more frustrated, brow furrowed, mouth in a pout that he’d absolutely deny making. “Then what the hell was she talking about?”
“…What? Who?”
Sam’s eyes widen. Oh. Oh.
You.
He lets out a long, exhausted sigh. Shakes his head. “Dean… dude. Just talk to her.”
“I talk to her,” his brother insists.
“Uh-huh. And that’s why you’re in here interrogating me about your ‘approachability,’ right?” Sam deadpans, leaning back with the weary authority of a brother who has lived through this many, many times.
“Whatever,” Dean grumbles, immediately hating where this is going. He pushes up from the table and heads for the coffee machine, chewing on his bottom lip like he’s trying to think a hole through it.
Two minutes later, you step into the kitchen, heading straight for the fridge like you always do. And Sam sees it. God, he sees all of it. Front-row seats.
Dean cuts a glance at you from the corner of his eye, stands a little straighter, then his hand shoots up to flatten his hair. Sam just shakes his head. He swears he’s going to start avoiding the kitchen entirely when the two of you are in here together.
“Would you hand me a spoon, handsome?” you ask, completely unaware of what you just triggered.
Sam watches Dean freeze at the pet name.
“Spoon. Yeah. We, uh… we have spoons,” he stammers, somehow producing one like it’s a rare artifact. He hands it to you with the confidence of a Victorian maiden having her first conversation with a man.
Then he retreats to the safety of the coffee machine.
Yogurt and spoon in hand, you head out of the kitchen. Dean’s eyes track you the whole way, drawn like a magnet. The instant you disappear down the hall, something in him lights up.
The man beams.
“Handsome,” he says to the empty air, chest puffing up. “She thinks I’m handsome.”
Then he spins on his heel and strides out of the kitchen, riding the high.
Sam shakes his head, muttering, “Unbelievable.”
Two seconds later, Dean reappears, deflating the dramatic exit. “Forgot my coffee,” he says, grabbing the mug with forced nonchalance. He doesn’t make eye contact.
Sam just snorts.
—
It’s been around two hours when you spot Sam in the library, typing away on his computer.
You sit down across from him and wait.
When his eyes finally lift from the screen, one eyebrow raised, you say, “Can I run something by you real quick?”
“Sure,” he replies, tone calm. “What’s up?”
You hesitate. Usually, maybe you wouldn’t even ask. But it’s Sam, and you trust him. “How would you… rate me, on a scale from one to ten?”
“What?”
“Like, hypothetically… let’s say you walk into a bar and I’m sitting there. What’s your first impression of me?”
Sam, who doesn’t even like bars, has already been dragged into two bar hypotheticals today, and it’s barely ten in the morning. He resists the urge to sigh. “Just… talk to Dean,” he says. “Trust me.”
“How did you know I—”
“Really good intuition,” he interrupts.
You stare down at the table, lips pouting. “It’s just… He flirts with everyone, literally everyone – even the old lady at the market. He just… never flirts with me. So I try to be casual. But this morning... it sort of got out before I could stop myself, and I called him handsome. And he, uh – I don’t think he liked that.”
Sam lets out a quiet snort.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he mutters quickly, eyes darting back to the computer. “Just… maybe ask him to grab a coffee sometime. Keep it casual. Start small, you know?"
You hum thoughtfully, weighing the advice. “Yeah… maybe I could do that.”
Sam smiles faintly, satisfied, and goes back to typing. He can survive this, probably.
—
Dean is sweet.
Okay, maybe he doesn’t flirt with you. Not the way he does with everyone else.
But if you’re being even a little logical, you know he cares. A lot.
He worries about you no matter what you’re dealing with: hunt injuries, a headache, a papercut, a sneeze. One fragile little “achoo” and he’s glancing over all concerned.
And he pays attention.
You mention things offhand like your favorite snacks, a brand of tea you like, or that one candle scent you can never find... and the next time he comes back from the store, they’re sitting on the table like they magically appeared.
He never says it was him.
Probably thinks it’s nothing.
But it isn’t nothing. Not to you.
And sure, old Joanne at the market gets called “sweetheart,” and you don’t. But Dean has never bought her chocolate before.
…Wait. Has he?
Doesn’t matter.
Because the point is: you’re going to follow Sam’s advice and ask him out for coffee.
Even if he doesn’t like you back, Dean is sweet, and he deserves good coffee.
And you’re brave enough to offer it.
With this thought in mind, you walk into the kitchen the next morning.
Sam is already blending something green. You hover in the doorway until he finally shows mercy and switches it off because you really don’t want the sound of zucchini being pulverized to mark the beginning of whatever is about to happen.
Only then do you cross the room and sit down right across from Dean, who still hasn’t noticed you’re there.
He’s cradling his coffee, eyelids heavy, hair sticking up in five different directions. But the moment you enter his line of sight, he nearly jumps. His back goes straight, and he immediately smooths a hand over his hair, one stubborn piece still popping right back up.
God, he’s adorable.
“Mornin’,” he says softly, still half-asleep, voice rough like gravel, and your brain just… fries. Completely.
Not a thought up there for a good minute.
You had a speech planned, had summoned enough courage for it, and now there's just… nothing.
Soon enough, Dean’s hands are on the table, pushing him to his feet. “All right, I’mma—head to the store,” he says, nodding vaguely toward the door.
Sure. Go flirt with Joanne, you think. Bet she likes that a lot.
But then he turns those big, hopeful eyes on you. “Wanna come?”
“What?"
“Yesterday,” he adds quickly, “you said you wanted to go…”
Your chest melts a little. You only said that to Sam, and Dean… still paid attention.
You manage to smile. “Yeah. I’ll come.”
Dean smiles back before he tries to cover it up with a half-suppressed nod. “Cool. Yeah. Uh—let’s go then.”
He nearly walks into the doorframe on the way out.
—
“Joanne, looking incredible this morning,” Dean practically whistles at the older lady at the counter the second you step through the door.
“Right back at you, gorgeous,” she beams.
Of course she’s beaming. You’d beam too if he said you looked incredible.
Then she leans in conspiratorially, glancing around like she’s sharing state secrets. “Placed an order for that pie you like. Should be here tomorrow.”
Dean grins. “Sweetheart, you sure you wanna keep your husband? Competition’s fierce… just sayin’.”
You glare at the mismatched floor tiles and make your way toward the fridge aisle, while Joanne giggles behind the counter. Again, who can blame her?
Then they start talking in hushed tones, leaning in toward each other. You’re pretty sure they’re talking about you because of the way she keeps sneaking glances your way. You strain to hear while pretending to examine the products, but you’re too far away to catch a word. By the time you edge closer, the conversation cuts off, and Dean doesn’t even glance in your direction.
When you finally reach the till, Joanne leans in and whispers, “Darling, you gotta snatch that before it’s too late.”
She nods toward Dean, who’s hovering near the snack aisle. “I mean, look at him,” she adds, shaking her head with exaggerated approval. Your eyes follow hers, taking in everything from head to toe. “Seriously. If he looked at me the way he looks at you, I wouldn’t just stand there doing nothing.”
“The way he looks at me?” you echo, because apparently that’s the only sentence your brain can manage.
Joanne stares at you. “Sweetheart… are your eyes just for decoration?”
“What?"
Before she can say anything else, Dean returns with a bag of chips and puts it down gently on the conveyor belt. “Got the ones you like,” he murmurs, not quite meeting your eyes.
Aww, he's so cute.
You glance at Dean.
Then at the chips.
Then back at Joanne, who lifts her eyebrows in a ‘see what I mean?’ kind of way.
Okay.
Yeah.
You do have to snatch that before it’s too late.
—
The way he looks at you.
You’ve been chewing on that the whole ride back, trying to decode what the hell Joanne meant.
Sure, Dean glances at you, checks if you’re okay, keeps track of you the way he keeps track of Sam, Cas, his car, everything he cares about. That’s just… Dean. Nothing special about it.
Right?
“What were you and Joanne talkin’ about?” he asks suddenly, low and careful. His eyes flick over to you, then right back to the road. “What’d she say?”
He sounds almost… worried.
“Uh, nothing,” you lie, light as possible. “She might have a crush on you, though.”
That gets a small smile out of him, soft and relieved. Then he glances again. “That's all she said?”
“Why?”
He shrugs one shoulder, eyes fixed ahead. “Just… wonderin’.”
You do not bring up her actual comments, because dying from embarrassment in this car is not on your bucket list. “What about you?” you ask, as casual as possible. “What were you two whispering about?”
“Uh… she, uh… has this niece she wanted me to meet.”
“Oh.” It falls out of you flat and tiny.
“Yeah,” he adds, rubbing the back of his neck. “She thought I might be interested.”
“Really?”
“I’m not,” he says immediately, too immediately. “Interested, I mean. But Joanne kinda figured that out right away,” Dean finishes. “So it’s all good.”
The old lady wasn’t joking. Someone less insecure is going to snatch him up one of these days, and you’re going to regret all this waiting around doing nothing.
But the question is, how are you supposed to live in the bunker with him if you go all in on your feelings and he doesn’t feel the same? That’s just a recipe for disaster.
But then again… The way he looks at you.
You make it your personal project to figure out just what the hell that means.
Truthfully, it doesn't even take long to gather hints, one after the other.
He does look at you, more than you’d realized. Not the teasing, smirking kind of glance he gives literally everyone else. Not even the playful, flirty looks. No, this is different. His eyes linger, soft, careful, like he’s making sure you’re okay, or memorizing something only he can see.
And maybe you’re reading too much into it. Maybe. But every time he flusters when you tease him, or he scratches the back of his neck when you hand him a simple compliment, your brain takes notes. You start keeping a mental tally, just to make sure you’re not imagining things.
You’re also pretty sure you’ve seen him blush around you a couple of times. Enough to make your heart skip.
Dean Winchester, master of casual charm and reckless confidence, gets… flustered. Around you. And it’s the smallest, most perfect kind of proof.
After weeks of quietly gathering evidence and comparing notes with Sam, Cas, and even Jack, your case feels airtight. And with it comes a little surge of courage.
And then, out of nowhere, you stumble onto the final piece.
The big one.
You weren’t even supposed to be in the bunker.
You were meant to be at Charlie’s for the weekend: movies, junk food, girl talk, a detox from the job, and the crises that come with it. But she comes down with a brutal flu and refuses to get you sick, so the whole plan gets pushed back.
You were going to text the boys and let them know you were still home, but you never got the chance.
Because the second the front door slams, you hear Dean’s voice echo down the metal stairs: “That’s just stupid,” he grumbles. “I’m not doin’ that. I don’t even know if she likes me.”
You freeze mid-step.
Sam’s answer comes fast, like he’s run out of patience for the year. “Dean. Be serious. Are your eyes just for decoration?”
Sam and Joanne could be good friends, you think. They’re both full-time members of the Dean Appreciation Squad anyway.
Dean huffs loudly. “She lives here, Sam. What if you’re wrong? I don’t wanna make her uncomfortable.” His voice dips, softer, almost guilty. “God knows I probably already do.”
Your heart drops.
He actually thinks he might be making you uncomfortable.
Dean Winchester.
A man who apologizes when you bump into him.
A man who brings you your favorite snacks without a word.
A man who looks at you with care and devotion.
He thinks any of that is unwelcome.
You press back against the wall, breath catching in your throat, because the truth finally lands and it's undeniable.
He likes you.
Really likes you.
And he’s holding himself back because he’s afraid his feelings might somehow upset you.
...Well.
You’re going to have to show him exactly how wrong he is.
—
You stroll into the garage one slow morning, no hunts, no plans – just a little time to make yourself feel… well, you. No flannel. No worn-out boots. Today, something that hugs your curves just right, a touch of makeup to bring out your best features. You even had time to make your hair cooperate.
Dean’s under the car, elbow-deep in something greasy, when you lean against the wall, arms crossed casually.
“Whatcha doin’, handsome?” you murmur, voice soft but teasing.
Metal clangs to the floor. “Son of a—” He scrambles out from under the car, rag in hand, eyes widening as they travel up and down you, and he almost freezes. “You… uh… you going out?”
“That depends,” you say, tilting your head. “Are you busy?”
“Huh? Me?” Dean stammers. “Why? You… you need a ride somewhere?”
"No, not really. Wanted to take you out.”
For a moment, he just blinks. The words don’t seem to register. “Take me out?”
“A date,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady, though inside you’re practically combusting.
“A date,” he repeats slowly. “You… and me?”
“Yeah. If you want to.”
A faint blush spreads across his cheeks, just enough to reveal his heart. "For real?"
"Yeah," you nod. "Do you want to?"
“God, yes,” he says, voice almost too fast. “I… uh… I’mma go change, real quick.”
Before you can even react, he’s already rushing to the garage door, as if he hesitates another second, you might change your mind. He pauses, hand on the handle, then spins back with a quick glance. “I don’t think I mentioned it, but you look... amazing. Just…” He shoots you an approving look, the kind that makes your chest tighten, before finally ducking out.
—
Sam should really get out of the bunker more, maybe get an actual hobby that isn’t research or running laps before breakfast. Most importantly, he should probably spend less time around you and his brother before his last functioning brain cells decide to mutiny.
Actually… scratch that.
It might already be too late.
He did start looking at local classes: pottery, pilates, and even a book club. But he never registered for any of them. And now? Now he deeply regrets it.
Because the poor man walks into the kitchen, thinking only about making a smoothie, and instead walks into—
Yeah.
That.
There you are.
There Dean is.
And you’re kissing him like you’re both about to start something Sam definitely doesn’t want to picture.
Right in front of the blender.
And - oh no - your fingers slip beneath the waistband of Dean’s jeans, and his breath itches. And then he's all like, “Oh baby, if you keep this up, I’m gonna put you right on this counter and—”
Sam slams his ears shut and salutes the blender for its bravery. Then he bolts from the room, muttering something about bleach and possibly moving to another state.
The next day, the blender is quietly relocated to the war room, where it can recover from trauma in peace, and Sam doesn't venture back into the kitchen for at least two weeks.
And you… Well, you’ll owe Sam a proper thank-you someday... Once he can glance at the two of you without immediately questioning every decision that has brought him here.
And, yeah… maybe a new blender wouldn’t hurt.
---
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