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Apr 13

ᯓ✯ Inherited your dad’s crazy eyes

SUMMARY: Anyone who’s ever met Dean Winchester will tell you the same thing: he’s a good soldier. His father's death left him forlorn and stray, a veteran discharged and without a home to return to, a devoted follower who witnessed the demise of his Lord. That is, until you become his new god. 7.6k

WARNINGS: angst. set on season two. established relationship. canon-typical violence. blood and gore. minor character death. hurt/comfort. ptsd. dean winchester is terribly traumatized. mentions of binging. unhealthy codependent relationship. grief is a bitch. john winchester's A+ parenting.

Anyone who’s ever met Dean Winchester will tell you the same thing: he’s a good soldier.

Some will say he’s the kindest man they’ve ever known, some will scoff that he’s a jackass. Some will flush at the cheeks and swoon a little, some will turn red in the face and white in the knuckles with fury. Some will claim he’s an angel, some will spit that he’s the devil.

But every single one of them will tell you that he excels at one thing. Following orders.

More than that, he seems to thrive in it. It’s as if a switch goes off in his brain with every command. As if something in his gut snaps into place, falling back into a painful but familiar sense of comfort. As if it’s tearing him into tiny pieces, but he’s lived in tiny pieces for so long that he doesn’t know what to do when he’s whole. As if he needs to be torn apart.

Like a dog that mourns the tapeworms after being dewormed—the emptiness in his stomach so unbearable, his body so big once he’s left all alone inside of it—that he runs into the woods and swallows mouthfuls of dirt as soon as his owner’s eyes flicker away.

It comes natural to him, an instinct that’d been beaten into his very soul by the one person that was meant to protect him.

John Winchester had relished in it when he was alive, a sick pride glowing in his eyes like venom every time Dean surrendered. Every time his son’s will faded into the shadows at his orders, every time the boy stood a little straighter and more vigilant at his present, every time whatever attempt at a backbone Dean’d grown while his father was away crumbled when he came back.

Dean was nothing but a military dog to his father—loyal, violent, and submissive.

“Watch out for Sammy,” “kill that son of a bitch,” “stop crying and help me carry him to the pyre,” “Man up!”

At twenty-six, at twenty-one, at seventeen, at fifteen. At twelve, when Dean had to kill that hunter. At six, when John took him shooting for the first time. At four, when he had to carry his baby brother out of that burning house.

An attack dog, Sammy’s shield, Daddy's blunt little instrument. Never a son, never a child, never loved.

Never Dean Winchester.

But now John is gone, and the leash that hangs from Dean’s neck looks like a noose more than ever. He sits around, teeth bared and claws sharp, begging for someone to take it. For someone to pick him up from the side of the road, to smack him in the snout and complain about the dirt on his fur, but to finally boss him around.

For someone to use him, to give him purpose, to blow the whistle and give him a reason to live.

So he follows Sammy around, with his tail between his legs and ears plastered to the top of his head. He’s loud and obnoxious and annoying, but all it takes is one sharp order from his little brother for Dean to succumb to the boy’s every wish.

It isn’t quite the same as John. Sammy’s commands don’t hurt him, Sammy’s wishes don’t strip him down until he’s a rotting pile of bones and skin, Sammy isn’t cruel. It still feels good to do as he’s told.

And then there’s you.

You’ve always been careful not to tug at the leash too hard, not to string Dean along wherever you go, not to choke him with the barbed wire that wraps around his throat. At first, you didn’t want to hold it at all, but Dean had quietly placed the handle on your hand and stared up at you with pure, unequivocal supplication.

How could you say no?

With time, you’ve learned that it isn’t all that bad. Yes, Dean’s complete surrender at the hint of an order is still devastating in every way possible, but it also has its perks.

Because that man has a masters degree in self-destructive behavior. He throws himself into every fire, downs every bottle, takes every bullet. He collects scars like trophies, breaks bones like records, chases death like a nascar racer.

It makes you want to kill him yourself.

“You can’t keep doing this, De. You’re gonna end up dead,” you tell him every time, while patching up his wounds or cuddling him through a hangover morning—or, in the worst of times, holding his hand on a hospital bed. “Don’t you understand how much I fucking need you? How much I love you?”

But that’s the thing, he does. You know he does.

It’s in the ways he always curls against your chest after being woken up by a nightmare, in the way he doesn’t complain anymore when you pepper kisses over every scar marring his body, in the way he always crawls back to you, even if he has to hold his guts inside his body with his hands to do so.

He knows you love him. God, you make sure he’s aware every single day. But the long-term sequelae of John’s abuse is now integrated into his being, flowing through his bone marrow and red cells and cerebrospinal fluid.

So instead of fighting it, you utilize it. Not like John did, not like Sammy does sometimes in little-brother fashion. You use them to his own advantage, to take care of him, to keep him safe and protected like no one else ever cared to do.

You know what they say: If you can’t beat them, join them.

[⫘⫘✯⫘⫘]

The first time it happened, you didn’t know what you were doing.

You’d been in Northeast Pennsylvania following a Wendigo’s fading trace when Bobby had called you for help. The bastard hadn’t shown signs of life in days, and once he finally did, he’d barely waited for Dean to pick up before grumbling, “Help. Covington, Louisiana. Get here ASAP,” and then the line went dead.

Naturally, you and the brothers had scrambled into the Impala and dashed away from the Pocono Mountains at a speed that must have broken the sound barrier. A few minutes later, a message with the address of some Holiday Inn came through. Dean broke every traffic law racing down the interstate.

You tried to get him to stop at least once in the twenty hours it took you to reach south, sleep a bit in the car or even shuffle into a motel on the side of the road. But his blood-shot eyes stayed on the highway and his foot on the pedal, through sunset and twilight and midnight.

It was John going missing all over again. You didn’t insist further.

Sammy and you got some rest, with his huge frame curled up in the passenger seat and yours draped across the back bench. Dean stayed up on pure adrenaline and fear all the way to dawn, calling Bobby’s number every few minutes, blunt nails leaving half moon indents on the leather of the steering wheel.

By the time you drove into Covington, the bags under his eyes were bruise-purple and his movements jerky and frantic.

All of you were restless, though. Sam couldn’t stop tugging at the ends of his shaggy hair, a habit Dean remarked he’s had since he was a kid. Your lips were bitten bloody and your leg bounced incessantly as you sat on the curb, waiting for Dean to come back from talking with the motel’s receptionist.

You blame Bobby for adopting three stray kids with severe Childhood Emotional Neglect. None of you were being chill about the situation.

“She says a scruffy guy wearing a baseball cap checked in around eight yesterday,” Dean grumbled as he walked across scorching pavement, the bright spring sun highlighting the greenish paleness of his skin.

“Sounds like our guy,” Sam sighed, relieved.

You could see in Dean’s face that there was more to it, so you pushed yourself up on your feet and moved to press against his side, your hand wrapping around his. His shoulders slackened then, like the reassurance of another body against his made everything a little less fuzzy, a little more real.

Not a Djinn vision, not a dream that will soon turn nightmare, not a demon messing with his brain. Just real life, with his real girlfriend and his real brother.

Small comforts.

“Yeah, but she says he drove away in a red pickup around lunchtime yesterday, and she hasn’t seen him since.”

Your teeth broke the scabbed skin of your lower lip, metallic filled your mouth.“That’s around the time he called us.”

A thick silence dropped around you like smoke in the air, poisonous and heavy. You felt Dean’s fingers tighten on yours, mind surely reeling with all the possibilities, all the outcomes, all the pain.

Your pretty boy, consumed by death—always expecting the worst of life, because that’s all he’s ever known.

“Bobby is the most resilient fucker we know, he must be okay.” Sam walked in circles in front of you, tugging at the long wisps of hair on the nape of his neck hard enough for it to truly hurt. “We should get going, start tracing his steps now.”

“Did the receptionist say anything else? Did Bobby mention why he was in town?” You turned to Dean, searching for his tired eyes until they focused on yours. The fog that’d settled over them faded slightly. You ran your thumb over his sharp knuckles.

“Lady’s like—ninety. It's a miracle she even remembers him at all.” Dean shook his head, his free hand running though his already messy, spiky hair. “I tried asking her for the truck’s plate, but the cataracts in her eyes told me all I needed to know.”

More silence, filling your lungs and sitting heavy in your gut. You licked the blooming blood from the corner of your lips, about to suggest to try calling again, when—

“Y’all look like a bunch of wet ducklings. Whose funeral are we attendin’?”

The gruff voice broke through the air like lighting, making the three of you jump in your place. The relief that flooded your body at the familiar drawl in the words was so strong that you had to lean further onto Dean, spinning on your heels to find Bobby calmly strolling down the sidewalk, hands in pockets and all.

Turns out all the “help” Bobby needed was instructions on how to log into Myspace.

The skinwalker he’d been hunting was contacting his victims through the internet, sharing bad poetry full of dog imagery and angsty buzzwords before he asked them to meet at some woods behind an old construction on the edge of town. Completely lost to the secrets of modern technology, Bobby decided to call while scoping out the crime scene.

“The son of a bitch jumped me out of nowhere, chewed the phone right out my hand. I thought I’d have to roleplay as a cheerleader to find him or somethin’, but the mutt found me first. I put a bullet through his heart in a second.”

“You could’ve called from a payphone!” you huffed then, teeth blood-stained and patience running thin. “We were worried sick, Bobby!”

“I didn’t think y’all would rush here like that.”

After a long moment of buzzing disbelief, the three of you gaping at Bobby like fish out of water, you dragged Dean into a room in determined silence, if only to keep yourself from smashing your knuckles on the old man’s face before crying your eyes out with a mix of guilt and joy.

“We should go back to that Wendigo, sweetheart, try and see if we can still find him—”

“Nuh uh.” You pushed Dean onto the bed until he was sitting on the edge of the mattress, kicking the door closed behind you. Standing between his spread legs, arms crossed and eyes squinted, you stared down at him with what you hoped was inexorable resolve. “We’re not hitting the road again until you’ve gotten at least twelve hours of sleep.”

“I get four in a good night, baby—”

“I don’t care!” You started to tug his leather jacket off his shoulders, your gentle hands not matching the scowl on your tired face. Surprisingly, Dean let you slide it down his arms and throw it somewhere behind you. “You’re sleeping twelve today.”

You expected another retort, him teasing you about being bossy or flipping you around in bed and shutting you up with kisses. Instead, Dean’s already cloudy eyes glazed over even further as he kicked off his boots. He stared down at his jeans, giving the denim a slow blink before glancing up at you, all mellow muscles and silent doll lips.

In the green of his irises, you saw everything he’d never say. A silent plea. His torn-up heart, exposed and bleeding.

“Uhm—” You took a slow breath, like the slightest disturbance could break the fragile atmosphere that’d filled the room. “Want me to help you with that as well, darling?”

Red splotched his cheeks, shame and pleasure and bashfulness at all once. All the answer you got was an uncharacteristically-shy nod.

It was more than enough.

In what felt like slow motion, you dropped down to your knees, hands reaching for Dean’s fly. You’d been here a million times before, but for once the air wasn’t filled with heat and hunger.

Your fingers were careful on his zipper instead of desperate. The noise Dean made when you tugged the rough fabric down his legs was tender instead of ardent. His cock stayed soft in the thin fabric of his briefs, even as you placed a fluttering kiss over a silvery scar on his inner thigh, soft hairs brushing your lips and the pure scent of Dean filling your nose.

Once the jeans were off, you discarded them along with his socks. The rise to your feet was tense, like walking onto a mine field and waiting to be blown up in pieces. Instead, Dean shuffled further into bed, his head falling on the pillow and his body sinking on the mattress.

You cleared your throat. “There you go. Now you can rest.”

You blinked down at him in disconcert when his mouth parted with a yawn, as if sleep had overcome him on cue. As if he needed permission to unwind.

Testing your luck even further, you tugged one of the blankets from under his body and draped it over his frame, tucking the edges under his sides when he simply gave a low grumble but didn't stop you. In a minute, you had Big-Bad-Hunter Dean Winchester effectively wrapped up in a blanket burrito.

You took a cautious step back, admiring your work with wide eyes and a slack jaw. Dean looked adorable, hair mussed and eyelids heavy, but that wasn’t shocking—he’s always fucking adorable. What left you dazed is how comfortable he looked.

His eyebrows tugged down every few minutes just to return to their original place, like he was trying to frown but couldn’t quite get there. His cheeks were still rosy under his freckled skin, his face half buried on the pillow as he tried to hide another yawn.

Dean usually lets you get away with a lot—changing his music or drinking sticky drinks inside Baby or teasing him about his Wild West obsession—but coddling is something that usually takes lots of kisses and sweet-talking for him to accept.

Who knew all you needed was a firm command and some sleep deprivation?

But you hadn’t connected the dots then, convinced that something else had to be influencing him, so you carefully placed a hand on his forehead to check for a fever.

“Whatcha doin’?” he muttered, eyelashes fluttering as he leaned toward your touch, like he only did when he was too drunk or too grief-stricken.

“...are you okay?” You brushed his messy hair back from his face.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low and a little sluggish, but he sounded sure. For the first time ever, you believed him. “You’re right, I need a nap. So stop fussing and c’mere.”

Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, you wormed your way under the covers and tugged at Dean until his head was resting against your chest, ear pressed to your heart. He followed willingly, a little sigh escaping his lips and warming your neck.

“I love you,” you whispered, just in case this was actually the end of the world. “Go to sleep.”

Your boyfriend, the famous insomniac known to roll in bed for hours before his eyes can fall shut, was asleep in all of five seconds.

[⫘⫘✯⫘⫘]

The second time was a lot more obvious.

It’d been a terrible night. Sammy was down in Nebraska at the Harvelle’s roadhouse, looking for the location of a new potential Special Child. Dean had wanted to go with him, but you were in Montana looking for a Rugaru with a sweet tooth for children. At the end, you’d all agreed it’d be best if you split up.

So Sammy had borrowed—stolen—a car and headed south while Dean and you continued to search for the creature, who’d somehow been able to dodge the police, a furious local Parents Association group, and now two fake-FBI agents.

“Sneaky son of a bitch,” Dean had snarled under his breath as you sneaked into a kindergarten principal’s office.

Finally, after twelve long hours of watching glitchy security cameras and stalking the town’s playground like a pair of creeps, you’d gotten your hands on the child-eater.

It was the local youth pastor—there was a joke there you were too tired to make—who’ve been convincing his Sunday school students to come around the church after dark, for “extra holy lessons.”

Dean and you barged through the backdoor of the cathedral just in time to find the old man with his teeth sunk on a tween boy’s neck, mouth and clerical collar smeared with blood as he held the poor kid down against a pipe organ.

You ran toward the rugaru as Dean landed a well-aimed shot on his chest, sending him stumbling backwards and away from the boy. The pervert ended up with his back against a giant crucifix, the blood dripping from Jesus’ wounds blending with the one dripping from the pastor’s mouth.

Taking advantage of the slight moment of confusion, you quickly dozed him in lighter fluid, throwing your open zippo at him before he could realize what happened. Soon his body was consumed by flames, the fire reflecting in Christ’s porcelain eyes, the crucifix around his neck melting onto the wooden floor.

You turned around to find Dean kneeling on the floor with the bleeding boy in his arms, wide palm wrapped around the oozing wound in his neck, whispering what you imagined were low reassurances.

The boy’s skin was pale and thin, wrapping around his bones like a veil. He had shaggy hair and wide, muddy eyes that stared up at Dean with pure terror, trembling fingers latched onto the older man’s jacket like he was an angel, here to save him from the pain of the mortal world.

At first glance, under the flickering light of the fire and the moonlight filtering through stained glass, he looked just like Sammy.

“It’s okay, kiddo. You’re gonna be fine, you hear me? We’re gonna get you home safe,” Dean feverishly whispered under his breath as you walked closer.

But then your boyfriend looked up at you, and you knew—the boy was dying. The pain that burned on Dean’s eyes was hotter than the blaze behind you, abrasive and destructive. A flick of panic flashed on his face once his gaze met yours, broken and guttering, right before he pulled on his almost-perfected mask of stoicism.

“That’s it, buddy. Just—let go. It’s over. I’ll take care of you, you can let go.”

You dropped on your knees next to him, watching as the light slowly left the kid’s eyes, the now blueish orbs locked onto Dean’s green ones, bloody hands still holding onto his arms.

For minutes or years, Dean continued to cradle the boy against his chest, body growing cold and stiff between his warm arms. The blood dried an ugly brown shade, the fire spread all through the altar, sirens started to echo from the distance.

“De, we gotta go.”

But he was irresponsive, gaze lost somewhere too faraway to reach, body shut down. With what felt like a blade stuck in the back of your throat, you forced yourself up and ripped the boy away from his grasp, having to ignore the heartbreaking noise that Dean let out as you yanked the boy across the hardwood flooring.

Knowing that the corpse was now covered in Dean’s DNA, you caressed the boy’s cheek and silently apologized to him before resting his body amidst the flames, tears stinging on your eyes as you dragged Dean back to the Impala.

Even hours later, sitting in a hotel room’s toilet, Dean’s hands still held the shape of the boy’s throat. His eyes were lost somewhere in the ugly floral tiles, his clothes blood-stained and his breath shallow.

The hotel you’d found nearby was still tacky and cheap, with horrendous bed covers and too-strong flowery scent, but it was clean enough for you to run a bath and lead Dean into it.

Undressing him had become a bit of a habit after the last time. Not always, not when Dean was present enough to be self-conscious about it. But on nights like this, it’d become normal for you to pull his shirt over his head, undo his shoelaces and tug down his pants and underwear until he was naked and unguarded in front of you.

“C’mon, sweet boy.” You grabbed his hand, the one that’d tried to keep the kid from bleeding out, and guided him toward the bathtub, filled with a-little-too-hot water, enough to get the blood and grime off his skin. “Let’s get you clean, hm?”

You didn’t expect a verbal response, not when Dean got like this. After rough hunts, those too bloody or too deathly, he just… went quiet for a while. Sometimes he wouldn’t speak for a few minutes, sometimes he went without talking for hours. One time, when you got hurt so bad your heart stopped for a few seconds, Dean had gone nonverbal for a whole day.

So he settled into the bath in perfect silence, long limbs folding to fit in the small acrylic, the water slowly growing darker. You sat on the edge of the tub and pulled his hand to rest on your palm, gently scrubbing at skin with a damp rag, washing away the filth under his nails and between the crevices of his fingers.

Once his hands, arms, and upper chest were clean enough, you moved to his face. Dean continued to stay marble-still, rigid and expressionless. But when your hand cupped his cheek, the rag brushing over the maroon smudge on his temple from where the kid must’ve tried to reach for his face, his lower lip started to tremble.

“...I—” The word was hoarse and rusty as he forced it out, his face scrunching with effort. “I’m s-sorry…”

“Shhh.” You dropped the rag on the bathtub, both your hands now cradling his jaw, leaning closer until all Dean could see was your face. “Don’t talk. You don’t have to talk, baby.” You ran your fingers through his damp hair, still stiff and tangled. “Just close your eyes and let me take care of you.”

As if you’d just spoken an enchantment, Dean’s eyelids fell heavy and his back dropped against the side of the tub, his body finally letting go of the tension. Something buzzed in your veins, powerful and terrifying.

You reached for the hotel’s complementary shampoo, warming it up between your palms before working it into Dean’s short strands, fingertips massaging his scalp, dirty water running down his neck. His lips parted slightly, the tiniest of breathy sounds leaving his throat before he melted under your hands.

Soon after, you emptied the bathtub and tugged Dean up for a quick shower, washing away any lasting residue from tonight with clear running water. Once he was clean and a bit more present, you wrapped a towel around his hips and sent him out the door, placing a quick peck on his lips.

“Get to bed, hm? I’ll join you in a second.”

You waited until you heard the bedframe squeak under his weight before turning on the shower again, the rot of the hunt ultimately seeping out from your chest and molding on your skin. You rushed under the warm rain, hoping it would wipe away the memories. Someone needed to keep their composure tonight, and it had to be you. Still, tears joined the water dripping down your cheeks, the smell of burnt flesh and holy oil still clinging to your lungs.

There was something so wrong about child death—something unnatural and immoral, that claws at your intestines and poisons your brain. You allowed yourself to break for a minute.

But after a while, you glued yourself back together and slipped out of the bathroom in one of Dean’s shirts and your underwear, desperate to wrap around your boyfriend and sleep with his skin pressed against yours, to be reminded that no matter how horrible your world is, you still have him.

You found Dean on the flowery bed, as you expected, still on the hotel brownish-pink towel, his glistening skin reflecting the swan-patterned wallpaper. What you didn’t expect was the brand-new whiskey bottle in his hand, now more than half empty.

Your eyes flashed toward the digital clock on the bedside table. You’d been in the shower for a little less than an hour—longer than you’d planned, but still not enough time for Dean to drink three-fourths of a bottle of hard liquor.

At least, it shouldn’t be.

“Sammy called,” he murmured, his voice less cracked but still forced, like it was being dragged from the back of his throat. He soothed the pain with a long swig. “Ash and him haven’t found much. He wants us to meet him at the roadhouse.”

“You shouldn’t be drinking, baby.”

Dean ignored you, throwing his head back against the headboard and closing his eyes right before they snapped open, as if the demons in his head were waiting for him in the back of his eyelids.

“We take off at dawn.”

Your eyes slid back to the clock. 3:45 AM.

“No, we won’t.” You walked closer to the bed, knees pressed against the edge of the mattress, hovering over Dean’s taut frame. “Especially not when you’re getting hammered.”

“‘M not hammered, sweetheart.” The drag of Dean’s words made you flinch. That was the way he spoke to witches and demons and spirits—flirtation laced with venom. “I can hold my fucking liquor.”

“Okay,” you scoffed before reaching for the bottle, ready to snatch it out of his hands. Dean swiftly yanked it away from your grasp. “Dean—”

“Stop,” he grumbled your name, scowling as he turned to lay on his side, his back to you as he brought the bottle up to his mouth. He took a sip so large that the liquid spilled down his chin, his cheeks already flushed with drunk anger. “Leave me alone.”

The words are so childish that you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“Jesus Christ.” You tried reaching for the bottle again, but Dean growled—though it sounded more like a bratty whine—and curled in on himself, hiding the whiskey under his body. You gaped at the sight. “You’re such a fucking child.”

“Yeah?” He looked at you over his bare shoulder, the towel threatening to slip from his hips, his eyebrows raised. “What’re you gonna do ‘bout it?”

He was probing, testing you. A drunken attempt to rile you up, to get what he actually wanted. The way he’d intentionally bump the buffest guy in the bar when looking for a fight, the way he’d poke at witnesses until they broke and vomited the truth all over themselves.

He was daring you. And this time, you knew exactly what to do.

“Dean Winchester, give me that damn bottle.” He blinked at you—once, twice. His spine showed through his skin as he made himself smaller. “Now.”

That’s all it took. The scowl faded, the pettiness disappeared, the whiskey was instantly placed on your extended hand. Dean slumped against the peony-printed duvet, staring up at you, wide-open and bare.

“Good.” Dean made a small noise at that, his hand twitching as if to reach for you before he stopped himself. His lips parted with words that never came, all his inhuman, self-destructive resolve evaporating at your stern look. “Now, I’m gonna dump the rest of this on the toilet, and you’ll wait here, all quiet and pretty. Then we’re gonna sleep, wake up at a reasonable hour, and meet Sammy at Ellen’s. Okay?”

Dean nodded, his eyes glittering with a light you saw on such few occasions. The alleviation of coming home, of sinking back into a familiar place. A place that used to be cold and sharp, but that has transformed into a warm cloud of comfort. The solace of being taken care of.

“Good boy.” You planted a kiss on his forehead before rushing to the bathroom, because the pure adoration that broke on Dean’s face was enough to make you tear up again.

It was so heart-wrenching to see him like that. So needy, so lost. A puppy abandoned on the side of the highway, begging for scraps. Dean had been stripped of everything, until all that was left was raw nerves and a bruising soul. A thing to be utilized, burning metal that you could mold into whatever you wanted.

There was a fine like between using the power you’d been granted, and abusing it. You’d spend the rest of your life being careful to stay on the right side of it.

Waiting for you in bed was the same Dean from the bath, closed eyes and guards down. You approached with slow steps, leaving the now empty glass on the dresser before siding under the covers, tugging them over Dean as his breath stuttered.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“It’s okay, baby. You don’t have to keep fighting, I got you.”

“...Promise?”

A smile tugged at your lips, your heart swelling as Dean pulled you closer, wrapping all around you, holding you down like an anchor.

“I promise, De.”

[⫘⫘✯⫘⫘]

It became a routine. As mundane as your morning coffee and as instinctual as drawing salt lines.

Dean would start chewing his nails during a research session, and the words “Dean, stop.” would leave your mouth before you realized. He’d try to keep driving after a fifteen hour journey, and all it took was a firm “find a motel now, baby.” for him to swerve into the first exit in sight. He’d try to pull of some crazy suicidal plan during a hunt, him and Sammy barking back and forth until you cupped his face, looked into his eyes, and said low and stern: “You’re not risking your life like that. Quit it.”

Every time, the same dazed look would return to his eyes, a dopey kind of satisfaction. Sam would stare at you with wide, confused eyes, but you’d all learned not to question when a good thing came your way. You’d found a way to keep Dean’s self-destruction in line, that was all that mattered—no matter how fundamentally toxic it was.

Things were looking up. There was still the Yellow Eyes, and the Special Children, and Sam’s own suicidal ideation—but over all, it was good. Dean’s cholesterol must have gone down as you pushed him toward healthier meals, his liver must be thanking you for the break, and the almost-death experiences had been lowered to once a week at most. You were thriving.

And then, grief attacked.

John’s death still hung over the brothers like a ragged sword, rusty metal hungry to impale their waiting heads. Some days it was just a vague threat, distant and shapeless, almost nostalgic. But on others, when the brothers read one of their dad’s too-personal journal entries, or when you encountered one of John’s old friends, or even when the sky was too dark and the breeze too cold—the sword dropped lower.

This time, there were no warning signs. Because grief is a bitch, and it can flare from nothing and everything, no matter how beautiful or common or insignificant it is. It might’ve been the color of the flowers on the side of the road into town, or the fried oil smell of the diner that morning, or the soft-rock song on the radio—but whatever it was, it led Dean into a motel couch, binging on the food hoarded on the bottom of his duffle bag.

You’d known about the stash for years.

You’d seen him slipping protein bars and candy and fries into a rip he cut on the inside of his bag, in the space between the liner and the outside nylon. The bump in the bag was obvious, the smell of the perishable food filtered into the front of the Impala on very hot days, the grease of the half-eaten cheeseburgers sometimes spread and stained his t-shirts. It was no secret.

Usually, the stash would stay there until the stink got so strong that Dean would throw away the bag and buy a new one from some thrift shop. But in the last months, after John’s death, when things got bad enough for the food to mold and half of Dean’s clothes became bio-hazards, you’d started cleaning it up every weekend for him.

When Dean left to buy more beer or pick up lunch, you scooped all the unpreserved food out of the inner lining and replaced it with non-perishable ones—jerky and trail mix and crackers. Just so Dean felt the reassuring weight of them every time he reached for his bag, a constant reminder that he never has to go hungry again.

Unfortunately, that weekend you’d left on a mini-girls trip with Jo, hustling scumbags in Las Vegas and drinking mojitos by the pool, helping her through her dad’s death anniversary and forgetting about the impending doom of the world for once.

Which meant that the food you found Dean shoving down his throat when you walked into your room had been in his bag for two weeks, under the summer heat of the midwest through the metal cage of the Impala’s trunk.

“Hi, baby. Got us ice cream.” You closed the door behind you, kicking off your shoes and keeping your gaze low. “And guess what? There’s a theater down the street! They’re screening that new James McAvoy and Keira Knightley film—”

Your words were interrupted by a groan, low and wounded. Your eyes snapped up to catch your boyfriend curled up on the couch, arms around his stomach and knees drawn up to his chest, a half-eaten slice of pizza laying on the cushion next to his head.

“De, what happen—” That was when you noticed the green dots on the cheese, the faint black smears on the pepperoni, the slight grayish hue of the dough. Subtle, but there. Between his arms, he held his duffle close to his chest, not wanting to let it go even now. “Oh, sweet boy…”

Dean groaned again, whole body trembling as he shifted in bed, hiding his face against an ugly decorative pillow in shame. You dropped the convenience store bag on the floor and rushed to his side, skipping through a mess of snack wrappers and napkins and a half-eaten sub scattered on the carpet.

“Darling, what did you do?”

You sat on the edge of the couch, gently lifting Dean’s head until it rested on your lap, your hand threading through his sweaty hair and pushing it away from his forehead. Dean heaved as you tugged the bag away from his grasp, a desperate little sound leaving his mouth, his nails digging into the meat of your thighs.

“I—I was hungry,” he managed to get out, his throat contracting around the words, his eyes still tightly shut.

You hummed lowly, still petting his hair in soothing motions. You’d eaten lunch with Sammy just half an hour ago, some Texan barbecue place. Dean had eaten a whole plate of dino ribs you’ve bought him as a treat, just to see his goofy smile as he put on a fake southern accent and mumbled about some Western with sauce all over his mouth. There was no way he was hungry.

“I just—I felt so empty inside.” His hand moved to press against his stomach, over the hollow space under his sternum. Your free hand draped over his, drawing soft circles on his rough skin. Dean shivered, a dry sob making its way through his clenched teeth. “I hadn’t felt that way since before I met you. It’s like this… black hole that’s trying to consume me whole. I was so hungry.”

And when his eyes finally snapped open, and they rose to meet yours, you knew he wasn’t talking about today anymore.

“I was just—so hungry.”

You did your best to hold back the agony that threatened to spill down your cheeks, cradling Dean against your chest and rocking him back and forth, one hand rubbing over his tummy and the other one cupping the back of his head.

“I know, my love. I know. I’m sorry.” You leaned back until you could search his face, worry tugging at your heart along with the sorrow. “How much did you eat? Should I take you to the ER?”

Dean shook his head, his lips pressing together as he tried to straighten up, his arms giving up when another wave of cramps hit. You helped him sit up next to you, but kept him pressed against your side, your hands and eyes all over him.

“Nah, most of it was good. The things you put in there.” His skin went paler suddenly, but his face stayed impassive, the only sign of pain being the way he clawed at the fabric of the cushions under him. “I ate some of that sub, and the pizza—”

Dean dry heaved again, his whole body twitching as he doubled over.

“Oh, my baby.”

You rubbed a hand on his lower back, your heart breaking into tiny pieces for him. This sweet, caring, beautiful man who's been beaten by life over and over again. How you wished you could reach into his body and fix him, exorcise all his demons and wash away all the spilled blood he’s been stained with.

“It–it’s okay. I’m okay,” he choked out, because he’s Dean Winchester, and of course he’d say he is. “It’s not even that bad. We can still go to the movies if you want—”

“No fucking way.”

Your voice came out harsher than you expected, less like the softened orders you’ve been using and more like an actual command. You were terrified it’d make Dean flinch, or that it’d upset him even further, but instead he turned towards you as if he was hanging onto your every word, as if you were about to spill the cure to all illness.

“You have food poisoning, Dean. We’re not going anywhere.” You cupped his face, cheeks squeezed between your fingers, leaning forward until all you could see was the green of his eyes. “You need to stop treating your body as if it’s expendable. You are not expendable.”

Dean looked as if he wanted to argue, always the stubborn one, but you didn’t give him a chance.

“No, that’s not up for debate. Shut up.” Like magic, Dean’s mouth snapped shut. A part of you felt terrible about it, a little ill at the power you held over him. Another part, one that was steadily growing more and more dominant, was intoxicated by it. “You’re sick. So we’re staying home, and you’re gonna let yourself get better. Okay?”

Home. The word hit both of you equally hard. You didn’t have a home, not really, not in the traditional sense. But wherever Dean was, that was home. By the way his expression crumbled, Dean seemed to feel the same.

“Yeah, okay,” he whispered after a few seconds.

And only then, because Dean Winchester was the only person that could force back something like foodborne illness, his face scrunched up and he vomited all over your lap.

There wasn’t an ounce of you that felt repulsed by it. Dean was yours, in every way, and no piece of him would ever disgust you—no matter how ugly, broken, or gross.

“That’s it, darling. Let it out.” You petted his hair again as he retched, all choked-out gags and pained whines, tears joining the junk now staining your pants and the couch. “It’s okay, you’re okay.”

Because like this—dismantled into his most fundamental pieces, stripped down and willing, begging for you to put him together the right way—Dean could finally be okay. You’d make sure of it.

After a long warm shower, a quick call to Sammy, and lots of Pedialyte, you found yourself snuggled up in bed, watching an old soap opera on the TV while you rubbed Dean’s tummy and he held onto you like a teddy bear.

Your head stayed on his shoulder as the cramps got worse, his skin glistening with a sickly sheen and his chest rumbling with sore little sounds. You kept a bucket by the side of the bed for when he had to vomit again, and you stayed by his side through it all before going to empty it on the toilet and returning with another water bottle and a new dose of Pepto Bismol.

“Here, I know it tastes gross,” you cooed as you brought the medicine up to his lips, kissing the creases of his frown. “But you have to drink it. C’mon, swallow it all down.”

Eventually things got better. Dean stopped throwing up so often, even being able to keep down a few bites of the banana Sammy had bought along with the meds. He nibbled on it as the man on TV, a big guy with a thick mustache and a very obvious toupee, was about to find out that his wife cheated on him with his long-strained twin brother.

Dean gasped loudly as the wife revealed her pregnancy—twins, from different fathers. You turned to him with a wide grin, ready to tease him to oblivion for getting so invested in the cheap drama, when his phone started ringing from the bedside table.

“Saved by the bell, Winchester.”

Dean simply rolled his eyes, tugging you further onto his chest as he pressed the phone against his ear.

“Ellen, whassup? Everything alright?” There was distant murmuring from the other side of the line, barely audible over the close thumping of Dean’s heart under your cheek. Your boyfriend hummed hesitantly, scratching the back of his neck. “A case? In Arizona?”

You tilted your head, propping up your chin on Dean’s pec and staring up at him in silence, raising an eyebrow. This time, no words were needed.

“We’ll have to pass, Ellen. I’m a bit under the weather, and my house nurse has prescribed me bed-rest and incessable coddling.”

You heard Ellen laugh through the phone, a contented smile settling on your lips as you dragged yourself up, planting a sweet kiss on Dean’s cheek. A reward, a gratitude.

Thank you for letting me do this. Thank you for letting me love you.

The rest of the afternoon went by in peace. Dean ended up hunched over the toilet just once more, the cramps soon fading away and no fever in sight. You made sure to keep him hydrated, feeding him bits of crackers and soft fruit in between water sips, checking his temperature and wiping away his sweat every so often.

“Don’t you hate that I’m a mess?” he asked later, when the moon was high in the sky and the lights were off. His face stayed hidden against the crook of your neck, the words whispered against your skin.

“No, I don’t.”

Dean huffed, his fingers tightening around your waist. “It has to annoy you, at least sometimes. Having to deal with all my crap, picking up the pieces of my explosions.”

“It doesn’t,” you said, solemn and certain. “You’re not a burden, Dean. You’re everything to me. I’d spend the rest of my life scrubbing vomit off of carpet floors and washing blood from your fingers if it meant keeping you with me.”

A second of silence. Then a laugh, rough and heavy.

“That cannot be healthy. I’m gonna drag you down with me, baby.”

“Good. Don’t leave me.”

The command hung in the air, denser than all the others, because it was the only one that mattered.

Don’t leave. Don’t fade away. Don’t die.

You knew your control over Dean went way further than it could ever be good. It was codependent, symbiotic, almost parasitic. A piece of you had implanted itself inside of him and kept growing until you melted together, becoming one single being.

Not master and dog, or warrior and weapon, but more like a bullet and gunpowder—useless by themselves, in need of each other to function, bound together by fate and nature.

Still, when the moment came, you were not sure it would be enough. When Death called, tempting Dean to jump over the edge and join her in her inebriating darkness, you didn’t know whether your command would be enough to keep Dean away from it.

Whether his will was strong enough to fight his insatiable crave for his own demise, or if you’d lose him regardless of how tightly you held onto the collar around his neck.

Whatever it’d be, tonight he was still here, safe and sound in your arms as he slept, sacrosanctly under your dominion.

Toxic, but yours.

NOTES: SHE'S BAAAAAACK. i'm gonna be honest, this isn't my best work, but i'm very excited about a fic i'm working on so i just wanted to put out something quick before that. hope y'all like it, and hopefully i'll see you again a lot sooner. love you!

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