Soft Touch
Dean Winchester x Reader
Summary: Comforting Dean might seem like a hefty task, but all he needs is you.
Requested by Anonymous: “request!! can you write something where the reader comforts dean after a bad day, it doesn’t have to be major trauma or anything just dean needing physical touch and not knowing how to ask for it and the reader making sure he’s comfortable and okay and just a bunch of fluff and comfort”
Warnings: angst, language, injury, alcohol, fluff
The bunker was fairly quiet, near completely. Sam was tucked away in his room, and if you had to guess, he was probably doing research. It’s what he’d been doing in the library for a little while, sitting there quietly with a few lore books and his laptop before he gathered his stuff with a polite goodnight and went to his room.
Sam Winchester is the only person you know that decompresses after a hunt by researching for the next.
You heard the sound of his tv when you walked by, muffled and soft. The sound of your footfalls accompanied it, a soft set of taps on the cold floor as you wandered about in search of your beau.
He hadn’t been in bed at all, his side still made. It wasn’t uncommon for him, not really, but he’d had a rough day.
It was a seven hour drive back to the bunker, and he was damn near running on fumes because he hadn’t slept well the night before. The motel bed was not doing any favors, stiff and thin enough to feel the springs dig into your muscles. The dip in the center made an uncomfortable pit, and he was just about ready to snag you and sleep in the Impala. He couldn’t sleep nearly as well without you.
He was sore from the hunt, muscles aching and begging for a bath, but he wasn’t the biggest fan of them. He’d obtained a myriad of injuries, none serious or major, but the combination was a melting pot of misery when you put them together. Not to mention the constant state of war he’s in with his own mind.
The halls still smelled like dinner, pizza and a mix of burgers, something quick and easy. None of you had the energy to do more than takeout.
You heard the quiet hum of the lights lining the hall, and your sigh upon seeing an empty library, and an empty map room. The bathroom was empty too, and the Dean cave he’d set up. There was no note on the desk by the bed, so that was an indication he was still there.
But your search wasn’t very lengthy much to your relief, a simple glance into the kitchen revealing just the one you were looking for.
His back was to you as he stood at the sink. He’d discarded his shirt after dinner, a habit he’d gotten into as of late. He got hot very easily, and it was a simple and more comfortable solution. Besides, you wouldn’t complain about that.
The muscles in his back tensed and moved as he washed the dishes in the sink, those damn hotdog pajama pants sitting on his hips.
His hair was a bit tangled and mussed, brushing against the nape of his neck and curling outward. He’d been growing it out, same for his beard, a mixture of not having as much time to handle it and wanting to try something new.
You saw a half drank glass of whiskey on the table as you passed it, the uncapped bottle sitting next to it.
He knew you were there, heard the soft pattern of your footfalls, not to mention he could sense your presence regardless of hearing you or not. But it was confirmed when you reached up and tucked his hair behind his ear.
He pulled his gaze from the plate in his hand, leaning down and pressing a kiss to your forehead.
“Thought you’d run off for good,” you teased, your eyes meeting his.
His chuckle was soft and sweet, accompanied by a shake of his head. “Ain’t runnin’ off without taking you with me, sweetheart.”
“Well, ain’t that a relief?”
You notice the grin that tugs at the corner of his mouth, tired but surely present.
He rinses off that last plate, sticking it in the drying rack on the counter before wiping his hands dry on the tea towel draped over the sink. He turns to you, hands settling on your hips before they glide forwards, snaking themselves around your waist and tugging you closer. They were warm and calloused, the perfect combination.
You rested your hands on his chest, his skin warm and radiating to you. Your gaze shifts to the scrape on his shoulder, fading into a cut. He hadn’t tended to it, not really, nor did his mess with the one on his bicep and just above his beard on his cheekbone.
“How about we get you cleaned up, then head to bed?” You say, tipping your head back to look at him.
He took one of his hands from where it rested around you to settle by your cheek and tangle with the hair at the nape of your neck.
“You sayin’ I didn’t do a good job?” He asks, and you just barely saw the raise of his brow under the hair that fell over his forehead.
“Pretty much,” you answer with a shrug, a smile tugging at your lips at the sight of his frown and crease between his brows.
He tugged you in closer abruptly and you made a delighted noise of surprise, moving your hands from his chest to wrap up around his shoulders. His nose bumped against yours, the brush of his lips gentle before he they pressed a kiss on your own. It was lingering and sweet, borderline steamy before he parted, only to press one, two, three more to your lips.
“Trying to distract me?” You ask, furrowing your brows with a soft smile as you look at him.
He chuckles as he shakes his head, brushing your hair out of your face. “Oh sweetheart, I wouldn’t have to try to do that.”
You bite the inside of your cheek to hide your smile, instead rolling your eyes as you wriggle from his arms.
“Sit down, Winchester,” you say, walking towards the cupboard.
You hear his sigh as you grab the first aid kit, freshly replenished a few days ago. You hear that sigh but when you turn around, sure enough he’s taken his seat at the kitchen table, swirling his unfinished glass of whiskey in his hand before gulping it down and pouring another.
Now it’s your turn to sigh, head shaking softly and he most definitely heard it.
You open the lid to the kit, pondering over what you wanted before it came to mind. You snagged a package of an alcohol wipe, and the small bottle of antiseptic, grabbing a small stack of gauze.
None of his injuries were severe, but it’s no good for any wound, superficial or not, to have dirt trapped in it while it tries to heal.
Anyone knew that. Anyone except Dean Winchester.
Well, it’s not that he didn’t know, he very much did. He just lacked a certain caring when it came to himself. And by lacking, he didn’t care at all. He was always that way. He cared enough to eat and bathe, to brush his teeth and at least have you brush his hair, though that was purely because he secretly not so secretly enjoys how it feels. But in actuality, he didn’t care much for himself, didn’t see a reason to.
In fact, the only reason he cared even a little bit was so he could be around to protect you and Sam, didn’t have anything to do with himself.
“No more liquor, De,” you sigh, capping the bottle and pushing it away from his reach.
You didn’t fail to notice the way he looked at you for it, brows furrowed and gaze narrowed. And you didn’t fail to notice the way those dimples formed by the corners of his mouth, barely visible through his beard but you knew with one hundred percent certainty that they were there.
That was his form of self care. A bottle of whiskey or a six pack of beer. But that was no form of caring at all, no form of soothing.
You simply lift your hand and run it over his head, caressing over his hair, your thumb brushing over his cheek softly. Your hand drops to rest under his chin, tipping his head back to drop a soft kiss to his lips, something that made your words sound not so bad to him now. So much so that he made a noise of discontent when you pulled away to tend to those wounds of his.
He didn’t care about a damn scrape or two, he wanted you.
You sigh as you tear open a couple packets of alcohol wipes, plucking one from its package and unfolding it.
You started with his arm, holding his bicep in your hand, cumbersome at best because he’d become quite muscular as of late. You noticed the slight twitch he’d made in reaction to the cold alcohol stinging the open scrape, but it’d barely shown on his face, hard for anyone but you to tell.
You cleaned away the excess dirt and blood with gentle swipes. You set down the dirtied wipe on the table, reaching for the gauze and bottle of antiseptic. You squeezed a generous amount on, returning your grip on his arm as you dabbed it directly on the scrape this time.
He may think you were being dramatic, you knew it did. It was only a few scrapes, the most superficial of injuries you can get. The equivalent of a paper cut in the world of hunting. But you were all about caring for your big, strong tough guy even if he couldn’t give a damn about any of it when it came to himself.
“You should really take better care of yourself after hunts, De,” you say, beginning to repeat the process on his shoulder.
“I ain’t gonna die from a couple of scrapes and scratches, sweetheart,” he says, as careless as ever, his tone lighthearted.
You exhale a huff, tossing the second wipe down in a more obvious show of your frustration.
“Would you want me to say that about myself?” You ask, brow raised in challenge.
“Y/n,” he said sternly.
You could tell he was angry, or the beginnings of it. His jaw was tense, along with his shoulders. You could feel it under your palm, a noticeable difference. Not to mention the look on his face alone was enough of a giveaway.
That crease between his brows never left, only deepened by your words. Those dimples were still adorning the corners of his mouth unable to be masked by the beard that framed his jaw. Nor could it hide the subtle flush in his cheeks, tinged with anger and frustration.
To him, the comparison was incomparable. So ridiculously, unbelievably able to be compared because he was not in the same bracket as you. He’ll, he’d die for you, and has. He’s sold his damn soul to a low life demon just so you would be okay, and he’d do it again in a heartbeat. He’d rather get torn to shreds by a werewolf, become some wendigo’s dinner, be made into some monsters toy than have so much as a hand laid on you.
The comparison between you and him was one he could not make. Because you were the world, a radiant being and far better than the angels he’s seen in his lifetime and he knows it for a fact. You were his world and he was simply a fleck in it. He’s always felt that way, and the whole idea has been putting a strain on him for as long as he can remember.
He always hated that you were a hunter, because dammit it scared him more than anything. He’s seen what monsters do to people, innocent lives. He’s seen what the life does to those who enter it, how it changes them, he’s one of them. He’s seen the sheer trauma it’s put you through, the agony and pain. He sees it with every case, every hunt that’s added to the endless chart.
If he thinks about it for too long, it’ll drive him insane, push him over the edge of emotion and into a fit of rage. And that, that reaction alone only adds to the self hatred he feels. To be an angry person when you’re so delicate and everything he wishes he could be. It spirals into every avenue.
He couldn’t bring himself to put caring about a scrape on himself at the same level as an injury on you. He couldn’t do it. Even so much as a paper cut on you would have him furrowing his brows. It’d need something as simple as a bandaid and he’d be sure to put it on, giving you hell if you tried to brush it off.
No matter the severity, if you were hurt in any way, shape, or form, it mattered to him.
He didn’t give a damn about himself, he gave a damn about you.
He didn’t say anything else, and you sighed, softening your glare and settling your hand on his other cheek.
You noticed the way he leaned into your touch, however, his hair falling in the direction it so pleased as he tilted his head and tipped it back, his eyes falling closed.
Dean Winchester was rough, tough and rugged. There was no denying that. He was stereotypical, and put up every front he felt he needed to. But when everything is stripped away, when it came down to it, Dean was a man of comfort. That’s really all he’s ever wanted, no matter how much he refused to say it.
But it’s a trait that’s guarded with extra security, one he tries to keep on lock down from you even, but he can’t keep that from his source of comfort. He’d be foolish to think he’d be able to keep that from you.
The subtle flush in his cheeks had accentuated his freckles, soft flecks kissing along his skin, almost comically delicate in contrast to the tough persona he puts on. Especially the way his lashes curled over top of them when his eyes were closed.
You were gentler this time if that were possible, gentler in comparison to the other two you just tended to. His skin was angry and red around the uneven scrape, some of it smudged lightly with blood and some not.
His beard felt prickly and soft all the same against your palm, the longest he’s ever let it grow. His hair fell over his eyes, glimmers of green breaking through as he opened them to look at you.
He didn’t say anything, just looked. His gaze is softer than it was moments before, looking at every detail he can soak in as if he’d never see them again. Quiet as he admired. His expression was unreadable, yet so openly blatant all the same.
You knew he’d calmed down from a couple minutes ago. You knew it with the way his hands grasped your hips and pulled you closer. You sat down on his lap, a soft sigh exhaling past your lips.
“Well, I was all done anyway,” you say, tone lighthearted and teasing as you toss what was in your hand to the side.
“Oh good,” he says, pulling you all the more closer.
He tucks you into himself as tightly as possible, and you feel how deeply he inhaled as his face settled against the crook of your neck briefly, felt his exhale against your skin.
This. This was all he ever needed. All the comfort he’d known and cared for.
His warmth was unbeatable, his skin smooth and heated as you wrapped your arms around his shoulders.
“I could get used to this no shirt thing, you know,” you said, soft but mischievous, that smile of yours plenty proof of it.
You hear his chuckle, see that half grin of his as he looks at you with half open eyes, a chunk of hair dipped between his brows in a damn prince charming sort of way.
“Yeah?” He inquires, though he knows your answer already.
You simply respond with a nod and a soft laugh that sends a feeling of warmth through his chest like it’s the first time he’s heard it. Nearly sent over the edge when that laugh presses to his lips and dissolves into a kiss.
Damn was he ever lucky, any tension he’s carried having long since dissipated just from your mere presence.
He’d felt absolutely miserable, purely stuck below the surface of his thoughts that never fail to drown him. But in that moment, it didn’t seem to matter so much. They could be thoughts to worry about some other time.
Because right now he’s got you.
—
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