âThey all wanna take her outâ
â (but no one ever wants to take her home)â
SUMMARY: Dean has always been just along for the ride. Getting around town, flashing his fuck me eyes and feeling good for a night. When he's suddenly confronted with something real, he doesn't know how to act. 3.8k
WARNINGS: angst. john winchester's A+ parenting. mentions of parental abuse. dean's unhealthy coping mechanisms. hurt/comfort. using sex to replace intimacy. dean winchester is bad at feelings and incredibly traumatized. angst with happy ending.
now playing: fuck me eyes by ethel cain.
Dean Winchester learned from a very young age that love is conditional.
He would only ever be loved for what he could give, for what he might provide. If he ever was loved at all, that is.
Because, yes, Sammy loves him. But thatâs because Dean made him dinner every night, kept him safe during cases, and read him bedtime stories. Dean would let him have the last bit of store-bought pie, and Sam would look at him with those shiny puppy eyes. He would calm him down after a nightmare and get him to fall back asleep, and Sam would smile at him a little more gently the next morning. Dean would save his life during a hunt while their father was busy chasing the monster, and Sam would press himself to his side during the ride to the motel.
Sam loves him because Dean provides for him, the way a son is conditioned to love a parent.
His father⊠he prefers not to think about that one too much. John loved himâDean knows he didâin his own way.
And maybe his father only ever looked at him with anything akin to affection when Dean ganked a creature in record time. Maybe he only ever acknowledged him to order him around, to scold him, or to demand he take care of Sammy.
Maybe his father would come back to the motel rooms angry, his hand always fisted around a gun or a bottle. And Dean had learned quickly that his rage would soon be redirected toward him if he didnât act fast. If he didnât perform.
So heâd abandon his comic books, his cartoons and carton of chocolate milk, and heâd approach his father with careful stepsâthe way a dog approaches the hand that hits him. Dean would speak in a low voice, just a few sentences at first, testing the waters. If his father spat a âgo to bedâ at him or if his fist clenched, Dean would get up from the couch and go lay down on the stiff motel mattress.
If John closed his eyes or rubbed a hand over his mouth, Dean continued. He would reassure his father, try to comfort him. He had figured out exactly what to say to make him put the bottle down just halfway through it. He knew what not to say unless he wanted to get yelled at and find his father gone the next morning.
When he excelled at hunting, when he followed orders without questioning, when Sam was safeâthat was the closest he ever felt to being loved by John.
Any mistake, any selfish request, any bit of his true self that slipped through his mask would make any warmth evaporate, and heâd be left frozenâsometimes with a bruiseâand wondering why. What did he do this time?
So, yeah. Dean knows that love is conditional.
Thatâs why, when you came into his life, he didnât know how to handle you.
Thereâs a lot of things Dean struggles with, but women have never been one of them.
He knows what they want, and how to give it to them.
From a very young age, women of all ages have looked at him a certain way. He quickly realized that he was attractive. Hot, even. Sexy. Women would approach himâhis classmates in school, ladies at the bar his dad brought him to long before he was old enough to enter, witnesses during casesâand they all batted their pretty eyes at him, spoke to him in soft voices, and touched him with gentle hands.
At first, he would get attached. There was something in his chest, something snarling and salivating, that went crazy at their attention. At their affection. Some girl would run a hand through his hair, and Dean would already be wondering what their kids would look like.
Then he got old enough, and the touches became a little more lingering. Women would slide their hands up his arm, wink at him after pouring his whiskey, lean down until all he could see was their cleavage. They kept the soft voices, but now there was an undertone to it. Something sticky, sweet, and velvety. It would wrap around his brain and make him fuzzy.
The first night Dean woke up alone in a messy motel bed, he understood.
He would only be wanted for what he could provide. Girls would look at him with caring eyes as long as he made them moan and squirm in the sheets. They would caress his face and hold him close as long as their legs ended up shaking and their pupils blown out. They would offer him nice words, comforting him and complimenting him, as long as he could offer them a good hookup.
They wanted himâas long as he was gone by morning.
So when he met you, he knew exactly what to do.
Sam and Dean had already crossed paths with you in previous hunts. After the first time you almost stabbed him during a poltergeist case, the brothers called Bobby and asked if he knew anyone with your name.
Bobbyâs voice had turned the most affectionate they had ever heard it as he told them about the time you came to him for help with a spell. He went on a little rant about you staying in his house after you got hurt and how he woke up to breakfast waiting for him on the dinner table and his fridge full of beer and fresh produce, before he realized he sounded way too fond of you and grumbled something about you being a good kid and to keep you safe if they ever crossed paths with you again.
And they didâover and over again. Sam bumped into you at a library in Nevada, and you joined them in a vampire hunt once in Massachusetts. Dean bought you a drink in upstate New York about three months after your first meeting, and he could never have guessed how itâd go.
âHere you go, sweetheart,â he grinned at you with his signature confident smile. You murmured a thank you and grabbed the margarita from his hand, your fingers brushing.
But the smile you gave him was a little too neutral, too actually grateful. You didnât shudder at the touch of your fingers, and your gaze quickly returned to your phone afterward. Your words werenât flustered or alluringâjust normal.
Still, he didnât give up. He slid onto the stool next to you, and the moment you turned to face him, he tilted his head and looked down at you in that way he knew would make his lashes look longer and his green eyes shinier. He added just the tiniest bit more arrogance to his lopsided smirk, and he even went as far as to wink at you.
But then you laughedânot flirty, not mean, just amusedâand sipped your margarita as you turned around and shared some small talk with the bartender.
So you werenât interested, then.
That was okay. Dean knew how to handle rejection.
But then you found Sam and Dean again later that night.
The bartender had ended up pulling some tarot cards from behind the counter, and you offered to give her a reading in exchange for a free drink. Dean had never seen anyone handle psychic bullshit the way you didâso effortless, so sharp. You joked your way through it, laughing as you laid the cards down, but your words still carried weight. Each sentence landed with the kind of quiet gravity that made people go still.
You told fortunes like you were spinning stories, your voice lilting between casual and cryptic. You winked at the girl behind the counter, did little sleight-of-hand tricks with the deck, and flipped each card like it had something sacred to say.
Halfway through it, five people were already lining up behind you, drawn in like moths to a flame.
You drifted through the bar like smoke the rest of the nightâlaughing, glowing, throwing back drink after drink without ever seeming sloppy. You didnât take a dollar for your readings and kept reminding people not to take you too seriously, but it was impossible not to. Dean couldnât stop watching you.
And then, youâd found your way back to the brothers, your cheeks flushed with tequila and your eyelids a little heavy. âI think Iâll call it a night, guys.â
âLet me drive you back to your motel.â Sam threw Dean a weirded-out look, and he could hear his little brotherâs question in his head.
Youâre leaving a bar, alone, before two?
Dean didnât turn to face him, scared his real self would slip through his mask. Instead, he led you out of the bar and into the passenger seat of Baby, thanking the God he didnât know if he believed in that he decided to stop after his first beer.
He didnât let himself wonder why he stopped. Why the sight of you dancing around the bar, beaming at every client and being admired by everyone had suddenly killed his hankering for the one thing that had always been good to him in his lifeâeven when it burned washing down his throat.
Dean was ready to drive you to your motel in silence, make sure you got in safe, and head back to the bar to get hammered. He wouldnât try anything again, because he knew better than to push after being rejected.
âYou know, you really saved my ass back there,â you murmured when Dean stopped the Impala in front of your room, turning to stare at him under the dim streetlights.
When Dean met your eyes, they were kind in a way he had never been on the other end of.
âDonât mention it,â Dean said with what was meant to be a bashful smile, but he couldnât help the way his chest puffed out. He was of service. He did something good. âItâs what we doâwe have each otherâs backs.â
You seemed to study him for a second, your eyes scanning every inch of his face. Dean squirmed in his seat, not loving the way he could almost feel you sinking in, making your way through his walls, analyzing him on an almost psychic level. Maybe you actually did know what you were talking about.
This was the moment. It was dark, late at night, and the two of you were alone in Baby in some desolate parking lot. You were slightly buzzed, and he had just given you something. Had just performed.
Your eyes were still on his, and this was when youâd lean in and kiss him, or invite him into your room. He got ready for it, almost desperate for the gratification it would bringâfor those few minutes he would finally feel fulfilled. Feel loved.
But then you chuckled, shaking your head slightly before opening the car door.
âStay safe, Dean,â you whispered into the night, right before getting out of the car and walking into your motel room.
To this day, Dean doesnât get it.
He saw you more often after that. Something happened to youâsomething ugly and tragicâthat you wouldnât talk about with anyone but Bobby. It left you morose, a little broken, and with a whole new set of scars.
Bobby called Sam and Dean the day you tried to put scopolamine in his beer so you could go on a hunt.
âSheâs goinâ stir-crazy, but Iâll be damned if I let that girl go on a hunt alone afterâthat.â
So a deal was made. You could work on cases, but you had to go along with Sam and Dean. You seemed to actually like the brothers, because you only rolled your eyes once before accepting.
That was the moment everything went downhill.Â
Because suddenly, he was trapped with you at every waking momentâduring long drives in Baby, in every moldy motel room, in every library and morgue and graveyard. You became a constant in his life, in the way only his brother, his car, and his whiskey had ever been.
And Dean couldâve dealt with it, if you werenât so goddamned confusing.
Because you patch him up sometimes, and your hands on his skin are delicate and soothing. You murmur reassuring words in the dark of night, brush his damp hair off his forehead, and ask him if heâs okayâand Dean actually believes that you care about the answer.
But you still donât want him.
You stare at him with shiny eyesâwide and compassionate and beautifulâbut you still take a step back if he tries to slide closer. You run toward him and cradle his face in your hands when he gets stabbed by a wraith, you keep his head on your lap the whole ride back to the motel, and you insist on holding his hand as Sam sutures the wound. Still, the moment he makes a suggestive joke, you roll your eyes and hand him another shot of whiskey to shut him up. You stay by his side that whole nightâbut you wonât let him touch you.
Dean doesnât get it. He keeps waiting for you to leave one dayâto get tired of this. Of him.
But you donât. You keep complimenting himâand not just his looks. Maybe you sneak in one or two comments about his eyes, but you praise him. The real him. Not Samâs parental figure. Not his dadâs perfect soldier. Not the playboy. Somehow, you glimpse beneath the mask.
âYou care, Dean. Not a lot of people do. They pretend they do, they offer empty condolences and claim to have tried their best. Youâyou feel it, deep in your bones. I love that about you.â
âThe way you talk to kidsâyouâre so gentle, Dean. You make them feel safe. You make your way into their hearts in a very special way. The way sunlight filters through the rocks of a cave. The way flowers bloom between cracks in the pavement. You have that effect on people. I love that about you.â
âYou always put people before you, Dean. Youâre so quick to jump into danger, to use yourself as a shield. You have such a big heart, no matter how much you try to hide it. Youâre one selfless motherfucker, and itâs fucking annoying. I love that about youâbut itâll get you killed one day. Again.â
Caring. Gentle. Selfless.
Dean doesnât fucking get it.
Because youâve got his back during hunts, and you always find your way to the foot of his bed after a really bad nightmare, and you never get mad when he makes a mistake. You can see all the darkest parts of himâthe ugly, scarred, putrid partsâand you look at him with so much⊠affection.
But you donât fucking let him give back.
Dean doesnât understand why. What did he do to deserve this? Why have you decided to give and give and give and take nothing? Why do you keep him around? Why wonât you just let him be of service?
He needs to offer something. Be of use somehow. Before he loses this. Before he loses you. Before you realize heâs no good when heâs not performingâand you leave.
But youâre so fucking impossible.
âI just donât fucking understand why you wonât let me do it!â Dean yells, slamming Babyâs door shut.
âBecause itâs not fucking worth it, Dean!â you cut Sam off, getting out of the backseat and storming around the Impala to stop right in front of Dean. âThe motherfucker is dangerous, okay? You canât keep throwing yourself in the line of fire like that!â
âHe hurt you,â Dean spits your name, eyes frantic and his grip on the revolver desperate.
Turns out, the demon theyâd been hunting in this town happened to be the same one you encountered months agoâthe one that left you cracked and weak.
Dean had lost it when he found out.
But the son of a bitch had formed a cult. At least a hundred demons, all following him around like starving dogs and hanging onto his every word like he was Godâor Lucifer, Dean figured.
You three had barely made it out of that destroyed liquor store alive. The demons had cornered you, muttering something about sacrifices and âheâll love some hunter blood, itâs his favorite.â
Then he appeared. Some long-haired guy with circular dark glasses and bell-bottom pants. Dean had wanted to snort, a snarky one-liner burning at the tip of his tongueâuntil he felt you.
At the sight of the John Lennon wannabe, your breath caught in your throat and your hand clamped around Deanâs arm tightly, nails digging into his skin like you were gripping a rope that was the only thing keeping you from falling into the abyss.
Dean had never seen you that scaredâface pale, lips trembling. He didnât need to ask. He knew. That was the bastard responsible for the scar down your spine you still tried to hide. For the nightmares that left you gasping in the backseat of Baby.
Dean was going to make him bleed.
If only the bastard hadnât disappeared. He saw you, said something about still remembering the taste of your blood and how, âYouâre still my favorite. A feisty one, huh? So let me do something for you. For old timeâs sake.â
And just like that, every demon started vanishing. One by one, they melted into shadow. The demonic lost Beatle was last, still grinning at you in a way that made Deanâs skin crawl and blood burn.
Dean had grabbed the first blade he could findâa simple silver one, since Sam had the demon knife. It wouldnât do shit. Would barely leave a scratch. But Dean had to do something. Anything.
So he charged, blinded by the pure-white rage pounding in his chest. He was closeâjust a few more stepsâwhen you stopped him. You wrapped your arms around his middle and yanked him back.
The demonâs laughter still rings in his ears. And when Dean looked up againâhe was gone.
Just the three of you. In a shattered liquor store. And once again, Dean had failed you.
âI know he fucking hurt me!â you say through clenched teeth, hands still shaking. They havenât stopped since the encounter. Dean needs to do something. He needs to kill. He needs to perform.
âBut he wouldâve fucking incinerated you the moment you got too close!â
Your voice shakes. Dean tells himself itâs just from the memories. Just that.
Dean scoffs, shaking his head. âI know you still have nightmares about what he did! You needâI couldâve gotten rid of him for you. I couldâve made him pay!â
Heâs yelling now. He doesnât want to. Heâs terrified heâll scare you. If you ever flinch at him, he thinks heâll lose whatâs left of his mind. But heâs burning. Itching. Dying to earn it. To earn you.
âThatâs not what I need, Dean!â your voice echoes through the parking lot. Somewhere behind you, Sam slips into the motel room.
Heâll find out how this ended in the morning.
Dean snaps. He slams his palm against the hood of Babyâbecause violence has always felt more comfortable than whatever the hell else is simmering in his chest.
Still, you donât flinch. That makes it worse.
âThen what?â he screams, stepping closer. âTell meâwhat the hell do you need from me?â
You break too. Arms flailing. Voice rawâraw in a way Deanâs never heard before. And just like thatâhe freezes. âI donât fucking need anything from you, because my love for you isnât transactional!â
You both stand there in the dark, your breathing ragged from the outburst. Heâs staring at you, blank and wide-eyed, frozen in place. He canât speak. He canât breathe. He canât perform.
Heâs waitingâfor you to yell again. Or hit him. Or turn around and leave.
But instead, you sigh. Drop your head. Take a deep breath. Then step forward and cup his face with tender handsâand Dean shatters.
Something inside of him breaks. Suddenly. Gruesomely.
âI love you, Dean Winchester,â you say again, voice soft and balmy, coating every single one of his scars and soothing him. It hurts. It hurts so fucking good.
âAnd it isnât something you have to earn. Or something youâll lose. You donât have to fight for it. And you sure as hell donât have to kill for it.â
Dean doesnât understand. His throat locks up. A pain unlike anythingânot even Hellâexplodes in his chest. His breath stutters. His mouth opens and closes, again and again. All his wit, his charm, his clever little linesâgone.
Thereâs a loud clatter, and when Dean looks down, he sees that heâs let go of the revolver.Â
It lays there on the asphalt, lonely and shiny. Violence, pain, struggle.
You guide his face back up, cold fingers drumming on his cheekbones, and he meets your eyes. Compassion, softness, love.
His eyes sting, and a lonely tear slides down his cheek. He fights the urge to wipe it away, to pull back and hide his face, to break something. His fatherâs face flashes before his eyesâhis anger at any sign of weakness, his usual âPull yourself together, boy.â
But maybe love doesnât have to be tough.
Because thereâs nothing tough about the way youâre holding him. Thereâs not an ounce of harshness in your eyes. No disappointment in the way you wipe away the tear. No disdain when you kiss the wet stain on his cheek.
He leaves the revolver on the ground, pressing his forehead to yours instead.
âI donât deserve you,â he whispers into the night, his eyes holding yours like theyâre the only thing keeping him afloat.
âYou donât have to.â
And itâs as simple as that. It could be as simple as thatâif Dean lets it.
And when you finally lean forward and your lips meet, itâs not lustful. Itâs like two galaxies collapsing, two parallel universes crossing paths. Mystical, celestialâsomething Dean thought impossible.
Thereâs definitely something psychic about you, because youâre otherworldly.
Dean has met angels, demons, dragons. Heâs met gods and the devil. Heâs been to Heaven and Hell. But still, the most unfathomable creature heâs ever seen is this girl who sees right through himâwho he would never be worthy of, but who still loves him.
âCome on, darling,â you pull him forward, away from his fatherâs car, and his guns, and his ever-haunting ghost.
That night, you two donât have sex. You let Dean hold you through the night. You run your fingers through his hair, play with his hand, and pepper soft kisses all over his face. You donât expect anything from him. It doesnât matter that he lays there and lets you take care of himâlets you love him.
Because the next morning, youâre still there. Because the next morning, you still want him.
And he doesnât have to perform anymore.
NOTES: can you tell that i love character studies? this is my favorite kind of thing to write. Ethel released fuck me eyes and y'all expected me not to write about dean??? anyway, I know i've been a bit MIA but I'm trying to find motivation to finish my WIPs.
I love you all! hope you liked it<333
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