dingo-ate-my-hot-lettuce-crazy - Tumblr blog

dingo-ate-my-hot-lettuce-crazy · 7 hours ago

Text

ohh nooo…one bed…nooo

YOU NEVER fail to amaze me i loved this, FINALLY we are open and honest about some things!!! adored this and ready for more🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

Chapter 10 - Look And See

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Going back to my roots (forced proximity)

Chapter title from Thank You by Led Zeppelin

Word Count: 17k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You, Sam, and Dean finish a case from Ruby, and it has consequences. Usual warnings.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action

Chapter 9 - Chapter 11

Read on A03!

“Can you drive any fucking slower?��

Dean shot Her a glare in the rearview mirror, trying not to get lost in how Her eyes were shining in the low light of dusk, or how all Her features seemed to be washed in the cool, pastel colors of sunset. “No, Princess, because I’m trying not to give the cops an excuse to pull us over after you blew our fucking cover-“

“I did not blow our cover,” She hissed. “I said we needed to leave now, and you decided to stick around and try to find more caviar-“

“We weren’t done, and I was hungry-“

“You’re always hungry! And we were done, you just don’t listen to me-“

“Maybe I don’t listen to you because you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

Her eyes narrowed, and Dean could almost feel Her gaze burning and twisting on his skin. “We both know that I’m the only one who knows exactly what I'm talking about-“ She paused, and Dean could see Her giving Sam an apologetic grimace in the mirror. “Sorry, Sam-“

“It’s fine.” Sam shrugs, his attention forcefully fixed on the book in his lap. Dean had a feeling Sam had entirely been tuning them out. “I mean, you’re not really wrong.”

“Don’t tell her that, Sammy, she’ll explode from her ego-“

“My ego? That’s fucking rich from you, Winchester-“

His grip began to strangle Baby’s wheel. “At least my head is in the game, sweetheart-“

“My head is in the game-“

“Didn’t look like it was,” Dean hissed. “It looked like you were more worried about flirting with that old son of a bitch rather than getting the knife-“

“It’s not a knife,” She snapped. “And I wasn’t flirting, I was looking for information, dumbass-“

“Yeah, that seemed to really pay off for you-“

“It did-“

“Dean.” Sam cut in with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “You guys can keep fighting, I just want to make sure you remember-“

Dean rolled his eyes. “I’m going to Norfolk, Virginia, and the black-eyed bitch will meet us there.”

“Ruby’s trying to help-“

“Well, shit load of good it’s doing, we didn’t even get the damn knife-“

“It’s not a knife.” She leaned forward, resting Her forearms on the bench, and Dean could feel the heat from Her body. It was a little dizzying, and She smelled like sugar and fruit, there was that damn fruit again-

Sammy was frowning, shaking his head. “Ruby said it was a blade-“

“And She was wrong. And I’m-“

“Right?” Dean muttered under his breath, glowering at the road. “You’re always right, aren’t you-“

“Yeah, I am.” Her words were clipped, and Dean hated how that made his heart split and howl in his chest. “And you better say thank you, because I didn’t break my nail just for-“

Dean snorted, and he hated the sound. It was louder than it should be, and toxic in his ears. He hated all of this. He didn’t know how to stop it. “How fucking tragic, her majesty broke a nail-“

“It hurt, dickwad. And,” She leaned back, only for a second, and Dean had to bite the inside of his mouth to stop himself from reaching over the bench and pulling Her back to where he could still feel her warmth. “You’re welcome.”

Sam was frowning, twisting in his seat to look at Her, and Dean wished he could do the same. Especially as Sammy gasped, and he felt as if his jaw was going to snap and his teeth were going to grind to ash. What was She doing that made Sam gasp, why did She always have to be so awesome and insufferable and annoying and brilliant, why couldn’t Dean just know when to quit, why wouldn’t she just leave him alone to die in goddamn peace-

“When did you-“

“While Dean was drinking half the bar,” She cut Sam off with almost a sneer, and it was burning over Dean’s head. “I got the museum curator to show me the collection.”

“And that’s-“

“Yep.”

Sam swallowed, and when Dean glanced over, the kid’s eyes were nearly bulging out of his head. “And you’re sure-“

“I’m always sure, Samuel.” Her tone was smug, and Dean could picture the proud, pretty smirk on Her face. “And it’s not a knife. It’s an arrowhead.”

Sam reached back, Dean heard a slapping sound, and when he glanced in the mirror She was clutching something to Her chest, glaring at the front seat.

“Don’t touch it.” She snapped, and Sam blinked at Her.

“It’s just a rock,” Sam said Her name carefully, shooting Dean a what the hell is happening look.

Dean didn’t know. With Her, Dean never fucking knew.

“It’s not- You-“ She took a deep breath, Her voice suddenly far too soft and measured. “Just, I’m going to hold onto it, okay?”

“But-“

“Sam. Please.”

Sam frowned at Her, but nodded, and Dean scowled.

He had to bite down vile, spitting words about Her thinking she was better, about not even trusting them to hold the weapon. There was a line, and Dean refused to cross it. He couldn’t stop toeing right up to it—driven by the bitter, furious part of him that still hated how She’d lied about being sick, how She’d left him fucking dying in the hospital, how She was better and Dean couldn’t be allowed to have her—but he wouldn’t cross it. He couldn’t leave a real mark on Her. It would fully drive Her away, make her finally snap and leave him in the mud for good.

And She’d been working with them for several weeks, and Dean was still being a selfish piece of shit.

He couldn’t fall out of Her orbit. He couldn’t bring himself to save Her from himself, from all the horror that came with being in his life, but he couldn’t hate Her enough to lie that he didn’t want Her here and mean it. He couldn’t just mean it.

Dean couldn’t sneer that She knew everything and believe it to be the truth in his bones. He couldn’t snap that She’d been flirting with that old asshole—and he knew it was the museum curator, and he knew it was for the case, and he didn’t care—and not put extra venom in his voice because She wasn’t smiling at Dean like that. She was barely smiling at Dean at all.

He didn’t blame Her. He was being a dick, but it was for Her own good. He was lying, but it was for Her.

He repeated, over and over in the dead of night, that it was for Her. For the best. And, it was but he still couldn’t quite convince himself.

He had five months left. If he was smart, Dean would stop swallowing his crueler words and just vomit up every false reason he hated Her—She was too pretty, She did strange things to his heart and body he didn’t like not being able to control, he’d follow Her anywhere but knew she wouldn’t do the same for him—until She left, and he’d rescued Her from caring about him.

Because Dean was damned.

But he never wanted to be damned for hurting Her.

So he was being a fucking asshole and not crossing the line, because he wanted Her. He couldn’t stop wanting Her, he didn’t know how, it had become such a critical part of him now—to always crash down, down, down into Her and that soft, sliver light that She always cast over the pit inside of him, even when She hated him and he was supposed to hate Her—that Dean was pretty sure he’d only ever stop wanting Her when his soul was carved up and split into pieces.

Yet he still wouldn’t tell Her. He still couldn’t allow himself to look Her in her bright eyes and tell her I’m dying, Princess. I’m pretty much already dead.

Dean didn’t have a good enough memory to keep track of all the lies he was telling Her. And Sammy was barely creative enough to come up with a proper story that explained the Devil’s Gate and Azazel and Lilith while completely omitting the whole demon deal thing.

But they managed.

And She had no idea.

She believed they were hunting Lilith because that was their job. That they were researching crossroads demon because Lilith was known to work with them. That they were working with Ruby, getting this arrowhead for Her, because they needed anything at all to try and kill Lilith.

Dean had called Bobby, and told him that, under no circumstances, could he tell Her about the deal. About Dean’s timer, and how it was slowly creeping closer and closer to zero. That they were hunting together again, and Dean wouldn’t ask Bobby why the hell he’d lied about Her being sick, as long as Bobby didn’t rat them out.

“I won’t say anythin’ unprompted,” Bobby had grunted through the phone. “But if she asks, I ain’t gonna lie to her.”

Dean had scowled into the air, keeping a careful eye on the sidewalk through the window. She and Sammy had gone to get coffee. Dean had needed to wrap this up before they got back. “Bobby-“

“No. You know you’re my family, boy, but she’s always gonna be first.” Bobby had sighed. “Listen, I won’t tell her ‘less she catches it herself. But you know she’s far from dumb, Dean. She’ll pick up that something’s off, and there ain’t nothin’ that’s gonna save you from how pissed she’ll be that you kept it from her. At least try and give her the dignity of learnin’ it from you.”

Bobby had hung up, and Dean hadn’t told Her. He couldn’t. Bobby and Sam didn’t understand that he just fucking couldn’t.

Couldn’t tell Her.

Couldn’t fully push Her away.

“How are you sure?” Sam was watching Her carefully, and Dean kept his eyes on the road. She was there. Right now, Her being there was all the relief he could allow himself. “I mean, I trust you, but we just need to be positive before we show this to Ruby-“

“It’s jade, and that’s what Ruby told you it would be, right?”

Sammy nodded. “Yeah, but-“

“And if you trust her-“

“I do.”

Dean frowned. Sam, for some reason, did seem to trust Ruby. Dean didn’t, because She was a demon. Being trustworthy was against her freakin’ nature.

“Well, she said it would have writing on it, right-“

“Yeah, but-“

“Look.” Dean saw Her shift in the rearview mirror, and felt Her brush his arm as she leaned back forward.

Little sparks flew through his body, and he sat a little taller, and he could see Her side-profile in his periphery and She was glowing, and there was the fruit again-

She was trying to make him crash the car.

“That’s Hebrew.” She tapped the arrowhead she spoke. “That’s Arabic, and that’s-“

“Latin.” Sam finished, and Dean rolled his eyes. Fucking nerds. “What about that one-“

She jerked Her hand back as Sam went to touch the arrowhead, and elbowed Dean in the shoulder.

He grunted, gritting his teeth as the dull pain. “Son of a bitch-“

“Shit, sorry, De-“

“Whatever.” He muttered, refusing to look Her in the eyes. She’d almost called him De. And maybe She’d been about to say Dean, but that wasn’t any better. His whole body felt like it was buzzing and heavy, and took a tight grip on the wheel to stop himself from leaning closer to Her. “Answer Sammy’s question.”

“Yeah, it’s, um-“ She swallowed. Dean could goddamn feel Her gaze. “Sorry, it’s just like, witch symbols. Probably.”

Sam’s face twisted slightly, and Dean didn’t understand that look. It was more tense than Sam’s usual, doubtful bitch-face. It was almost pained. Weary.

“Probably?” He asked, and She shrugged.

“Yeah. You’re the one who said it’s a witch artifact-“

“Ruby said it’s a witch artifact, I just passed it on. And, I dunno, can you not tell-“

“Tell what?” Her voice became clipped again, and something in the air shifted. Became heavier, more taut.

“That it’s a witch artifact-“

“I know all the same things you do. If Ruby says it’s a witch, it’s a witch.”

Sam frowned, Her arm brushed against Dean’s again, and the taut thing was now frayed.

Dean didn’t know what was happening.

“Okay.” Sam broke their odd stand-off first, letting out a slow exhale. “I just wanted to-“

“Be sure.” She muttered. “Yeah, I know.”

There was a long pause—Dean forcing himself to focus on the low sound of the radio rather than how close She was, how her breathing was heavy and measured, how he wanted to follow the pattern with his heartbeat until he was moving with Her all the time—and when She leaned back, Dean couldn’t stop himself from glancing at Her small frown in the rearview mirror.

“What did Ruby say this was for?”

Sam shrugged, turning in his seat as he spoke. “She told me it could help kill anything inhuman or unholy. Stuff that even her knife and the Colt can’t gank.”

“The nasty sons of bitches,” Dean muttered. “Worst of the worst.”

There was another pause, and when She spoke again her voice was small. “I- anything?”

“Powerful things,” Sam explained. “Ruby said it was designed for things outside of nature. Like Lilith.”

“Like Lilith.” She repeated, and She sounded strange. Nervous.

Dean glanced back in the mirror to see Her curled into the backseat, turning the arrowhead between Her fingers with a tight frown, Her body braced in the way it always was when She started to freak out, her free hand gripping slightly at Her throat, that little wrinkle in Her brow obvious and prominent-

He couldn’t reach back and run his thumb over, no matter how much he itched to. She probably wouldn’t even let him.

But God, the sight of Her like this made him feel sick. He hadn’t seen any real, full episodes since Her return, but he’d seen the bags under Her eyes, the raised marks on Her skin, the dried blood around Her nails.

It wasn’t his place to say anything anymore.

But it still torn him to pieces. Still made him feel like he was doing something wrong, still made Dean feel wrong. If he was good, he’d never allow something as amazing as She was to be in pain. He’d stop being selfish and set Her free of his burden, because even his proximity stole and hoarded Her light.

But he needed Her here. Even if She couldn’t be his.

And he needed Her to stop clawing at Her throat.

So he did the only thing he could think of, and coughed for Her attention.

Her eyes flicked to his in the rearview mirror, and they set off fireworks over his ribs. Colorful and hot and bright and Her-

“Nice work.” He muttered. “With the case. You were-“ Dean choked on the word right. Of course She was right. She was the only right thing in the universe. “You did good.”

He wouldn’t apologize. Dad said to never apologize for making the smart, right call, even if it was the tough one. Especially if it was the tough one, because that meant he was being strong, and it wasn’t his responsibility to make sure people understood that.

And what he’d said seemed to be enough. She sat a little taller, Her chin tilting a little higher, and when She spoke again Her voice was back to its usual tone. Smooth and clear and designed to haunt Dean in his sleep.

“Of course I did good.” She snapped. “I know what I’m doing, Winchester. I always do.”

Something in Her suddenly seemed to be glowing, leaking out through Her eyes on Dean’s in the mirror.

It made Dean glow. Like he was being called further down into Her. He didn’t know how the hell She always did that to him. He’d likely never get a chance to find out.

So all Dean did was roll his eyes and look back to road, because now he had a new lie to drill into his brain.

The lie that—if that hadn’t succeeded in returning Her to the proud, sharp, blinding woman She usually was—Dean would’ve said sorry.

That if She ever did lash at him with words that left bigger and more purposeful scars than the ones he already carried—the ones that seemed to line his every thought and breath, where he was haunted by Her when she was gone and consumed by her when she was there, and he was almost certain She didn’t even know how deep she was branding him—Dean would fall to his knees and fucking grovel for Her to heal him. For that shifting, easy light to cast over him and Her warmth to fuse him back together, better than he’d been before. For Her.

Dean would do most anything for Her.

And that meant—even if Bobby and Sam disagreed—lying to Her about the deal.

“Dean,” Sam was shifting through his backpack as they pulled into a gas station, his attention mostly focused on trying to find a credit card that hadn’t gotten frozen. “If they don’t have pie-“

“We’re in Carolina, they’re gonna have freakin’ pie-“

Sam sighed. “Yeah, but if they don’t-“

“They will.” Dean snapped. The world was already fucking tormenting him. They didn’t need to take away his pie as well. “Pie, Sammy. Nothing else.”

“Dean-“

“Pie-“

“We’ll find you pie, you giant baby.” She rolled Her eyes from the backseat, stretching as she scooted to the door. Dean could see a little bit of bare skin from the movement.

His pants got a little tight.

He was fucking pathetic.

Sam said Her name carefully, shooting Dean a weary look from the corner of his eyes. “We can’t control what the gas station has-“

“We’ll figure it out.” She shrugged. “C’mon, buddy. Let Deano brood in peace.”

Dean scowled, half because of Her drawling, bored use of Deano that still made him bend a little much for her, and half because he wasn’t brooding. And if he was, he should be allowed to. He was dying-

She didn’t know that. She was going to find him pie anyway.

And he hated this.

It was the good moments that were the worst. Moments when they glanced at each other when Sam said something dramatic, and he wanted to whisper a joke, but he wasn’t allowed to anymore. Moments where they brushed past each other and didn’t flinch, where Dean would see Her early in the morning and She’d look downright adorable with that small, pouting frown.

Moments like this one. Where She got back before Sam, passed Dean his pie without a word, and sprawled out in the backseat. And Dean could glance at Her as he filled up Baby’s tank, and She fit so naturally that he wasn’t sure how his very foundation hadn’t crumbled to nothing while She was gone.

She looked beautiful. She was wearing the jacket he’d left Her, and Dean could see the poke of the blade he’d given Her, and she was frowning at the broken nail she’d mentioned earlier, and it would be so easy to reach out and run his thumb down Her nose until she let out a soft, easy breath and everything was okay again.

“Have you met Ruby?”

Dean blinked at Her. “Yeah.”

She hummed, not looking away from Her nails. “What’s she like?”

“She’s a demonic bitch.” Dean muttered, glaring at the gas pump, and She snorted.

“Eloquent, De.”

He felt like he was falling from a million feet. She’d really called him De again. Out of fucking nowhere, like nothing had happened, She was smiling at him and calling him De and there was something in Her that was guarded and Dean wanted to shred it down and crash right into Her-

“Why are you working with her?” She asked, tilting Her head at him. “Is it because of Sam?”

“He trusts Ruby.” Dean’s words were pushed through his teeth. “And I trust him.”

“Should I trust her?”

Dean let out a dry chuckle. “Gonna matter what my answer is?”

“Yeah.” She said the word like it was nothing, and Dean’s lungs stuttered and caved for a brief second, as if he’d just been shot. “I didn’t ask for shits and giggles, Winchester-“

“Then don’t.” He grunted. “Don’t trust Ruby.”

“Alright.” She shrugged. “I won’t.”

There was a pause, and Dean didn’t know why She wasn’t trying to fight with him. He didn’t understand Her, how she could be acting like nothing was wrong when it so clearly freakin’ was, when they hadn’t even dared to speak about how She’d left him and lied and obviously didn’t want anything real to do with Dean-

“Did you see Sam trying to flirt with that waitress-“

“I have to shit.” Dean blurted, refusing to meet Her eyes as he returned the gas pump to its station, because She might look sad or surprised or hurt, and he wouldn’t know how to deal with that in a way he could permit. “Watch the car.”

He walked away before She could say anything, and Jesus, he was an asshole.

She’s been trying to be nice to him. Dean didn’t know why, but She seemed to be determined to try and patch at least something between them, and it made everything so much goddamn worse. She’d sneer at him one second—when the air around them was heated and weighted in Dean’s lungs, when Dean was biting at Her and she didn’t resist his silent plea for Her to bite back—and then do something like that the next, and Dean couldn’t live with it.

He couldn’t live with himself. It might be a good thing he was damned, because otherwise he’d have no justification for how he’d just walked away, how Her trying to reach out to him just made him recoil, because nothing had ever been as good as Her, and no one had ever been less deserving of Her than Dean.

And that was why he hated the good moments the most. They reminded him that She really was better, and Dean wasn’t worthy of Her infinite… everything. They forced him to build his walls higher, to line them with further barbed wire, because if he didn’t, She’d slip through a crack without effort.

Dean couldn’t afford to let Her back in. She needed to hate him. This whole thing would be so much easier if She would just hate him.

Maybe one day he’d walk away like that again and not glance over to check that She was still there. He had to drive Her away, but he still made sure She was still there.

And She was. She always was. Every day for the past few weeks, Dean had looked for Her and she’d been there. Legs folded in a chair as She chewed on a pencil, lying flat on Her back and humming to herself in a way that made Dean’s head a little fuzzy, standing tall as She scanned over a room and rubbed Her thumb over that scar on Her palm.

She was doing that now. Leaning over the front seats and rubbing Her palm, head slightly bowed so Her hair blocked a full view of Her face, occasionally reaching down to touch something that was on the bench. Probably Sammy’s book.

She was so pretty.

She could never be Dean’s.

Sam didn’t say anything when Dean shuffled to his side in the station, just raising his brows, glancing out the window, and letting out an unnecessarily long breath with a shake of his head.

“Wanted some coffee.” Dean muttered, grabbing a paper cup and ignoring Sam’s flat expression of disbelief. “Long drive ahead.”

“Sure, dude.” Sam was still looking out the window, an odd expression on his face. “Huh.”

“What-“

“See the Cadillac? The silver one?”

Dean followed Sam’s gaze to the parking lot. “Yeah, what about it-“

“It was behind us, on the highway. For a while.” Sam ran a hand through his hair, shooting Dean a tight look. “Did you seriously not notice?”

“Course I noticed.” Dean muttered, and he very much had not fucking noticed. He’d been distracted. She’d been right there whenever he used the mirror, and there had still been a little bit of lipstick stained on her mouth from the case, and he’d wanted to wipe the smudge on Her cheek off with his thumb, just to test if She’d gape at him or look at him like he mattered. Like he could matter to Her, if that was allowed. “Lotta cars in the world, Sammy, some of them are bound to be going from Carolina to Virginia-“

Dean cut himself off as the Cadillac stopped in the middle of the lot, its door opened, three large men climbed out.

They were walking towards the Impala.

He could see the sun catch light off of something in the largest one’s hand, and it was glinting and long and-

Dean was roaring Her name before he could think better of it. There was red lining his vision and a blaring, alarm-like sound in his ear, and She was in danger-

Sam was right on his tail as he burst out of the lot, sprinting back to the car—back to Her—as the men started crowding the windows, but She was faster. Right before Fuckhead Number One could bash Baby’s windows in, She pushed the door open into his gut, vaulting forward with Her knife in hand as the man let out a guttural noise of pain.

Dean slammed his body right into Fuckhead Number Two—the big, ugly one who’s knife he’d seen—right as Sam caught up to him, grabbing Fuckhead Number Three and pushing him down onto the concrete with a grunt.

They all had the same knives. Somewhere in the whirlwind of the fight—fists flying, Dean trying to reach for his gun but always fumbling as he had to dodge another punch, Sammy scrambling with Fuckhead Three on the ground as She danced around Fuckhead One—Dean realized that it wasn’t just the asshole he was fighting who had a that knife.

It was the same one that had stabbed Her in Colorado. Same curved, sharp blade he’d seen a few times on Bobby’s desk, that had damn near killed Her-

They’d gotten separated. Somehow Sam had ended up wresting with Fuckhead Three in the grass, She and Fuckhead One were the middle of the lot with Her knife in hand, and Fuckhead Two had backed Dean up to the stations walls.

“If it ain’t the Winchesters.” Fuckhead sneered, and Dean barely managed to duck the blow aimed at his jaw. “Didn’t expect to see you here-“

“Shut up.” Dean snapped. “Unless you’re gonna say why you’re trailing us, I don’t wanna here a word out of your ugly mouth-“

Dean side-stepped another punch, and Fuckhead gave him a crude smile.

“Not trailing you.” He sneered. “Trailing what you’ve got.”

“If it’s Sammy, you can have him,” Dean slammed his knee into Fuckhead Two’s side, sending him stumbling back with a grunt. “But I’ll warn you, he snores like a bitch-“

“We have no interest in Azazel’s little experiment.” Fuckhead let out a dry chuckle, not balking as Dean finally grabbed his gun, aiming the barrel at his temple. “Our kind deal in far… bigger, older affairs.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “This the part where I’m supposed to ask you what your kind are instead of just shooting you-“

Fuckhead smirked. “I’d imagine you’d like to know, Dean. Not like you can kill me anyway.”

“You wanna bet on that-“

“I’m not the betting type. To risky. And we- Well, we aren’t the kind to take risks.”

Dean was about to scoff and pull the trigger, but Fuckhead held his gaze, and his eyes shifted.

Eclipsed with a venomous, neon green for a long second, the grin on his face widening until he was laughing.

“You have no idea what you’ve begun to meddle with, Mr. Winchester-“

Dean shot Fuckhead’s foot. He didn’t need a villain rant right now, worst that would result in was a limp for the vessel, and goddamnit why couldn’t anything ever be easy-

“Sammy!” He roared across the lot. “Demons!”

Sam nodded, locking his arms around Fuckhead Three’s neck and started to chant the exorcism, and Dean sprinted forward to where She was still fighting Fuckhead One with a shout of Her name-

She was faster. She was always faster.

Dean watched as She brought Her knife right up to Fuckhead One’s throat, hissed something in his ear, and seconds later bright green smoke erupted out of his mouth.

The same happened with Fuckhead Two and Three, and Dean frowned. He’d never seen Sam do the exorcism that fast.

He muttered Her name, fisting his hands at his side to stop himself reaching for Her. “Are you-“

“I’m fine.” She snapped. “Let’s go before someone calls the cops.”

She didn’t look okay. Sam rejoined them at the car—dusting the grass and dirt off his pants and looking between them with a frown—and Dean had to restrain himself with brutal reminders that She didn’t need him, because She looked the furthest thing from okay and it was eating at his gut.

She wasn’t speaking. For the rest of the drive She was lying on her back, eyes squeezed shut, body half curled into itself and arms wrapped around Her stomach. For the first time since She’d returned, she really did look sick. Colorless and pallid, lips drawn in a thin line as if she was in pain, breathing loud enough for Dean to hear over the music. Sammy kept asking damn questions about the demons, about what Fuckhead Two had said to Dean and what green eyes could possibly mean, but Dean couldn’t really hear him.

His tongue was caught in his throat to stop him from spitting out that they needed to stop, because he was worried about Her. His chest felt like it was contracting and aching and ripping, and his heart was loud in his ears, and why was this so goddamn horrible, why couldn’t he just not care that She was in pain-

“Dean.” Sam muttered, long after the sun had set, a little while after She’d fallen asleep. “We need to tell her. About the deal.”

Dean scowled, his gaze flicking back to Her in the mirror. She seemed to be really, truly asleep.

Dean wouldn’t bet on it.

“Not now, Sam-“

“Bobby was right, she’d going to work it out eventually-“

“No, she won’t. She’ll leave first.”

Sam gave him an odd look, glancing back to Her with a shake of his head. “Why are you so fucking convinced she’s going to leave-“

“She always leaves.“ Dean snapped. “She left at the hospital-“

“Because she was sick-“

“Does she look sick to you-“

“Yeah, she does.” Sam seemed to suddenly, somehow, be taller. “And I know she does to you too, Dean. I mean, just look at her-“

“I did.” Dean muttered, glowering at the passing white lines on the highway. “And it’s not my business. I’m not talking about this, Sammy. So fucking drop it.”

Sam sighed. “You know can convince her you don’t care about her, shit, you can even convince yourself, but you can’t convince me. If it were anyone else, you’d have shot them in Utah, and we both know it.”

“Shut up-“

“I am. Just-“ Sam said Her name, and Dean felt like he was going to vomit. “You’re not good at being right about her. You get blinded, Dean, and I think she needs us just as much as-“

“She doesn’t need us.” Dean couldn’t stop himself from glancing at Her in the backseat.

Hauntingly beautiful in the night, the shadows and moving lights of the road making Her look even more like something that had fallen from the sky, like a piece of a star or comet that had started to breathe and walk the earth. The breeze breaking through the cracked windows blowing through Her hair and giving her cheeks a slightly flush.

Her knife was gripped tight in Her hands, and she was folded around it like it was gravity.

Dean wanted Her to fold around him like that. He wanted to be the thing that grounded Her.

But he wasn’t.

“She doesn’t need anyone, Sam.” He muttered, ripping his gaze back onto the road. “We’ll be there in an hour.”

And when Sam dropped it with a sigh, Dean made himself focus on the music. Normally, he’d turn it up to drown out his own thoughts, louder than even Sam’s chastising voice.

Tonight he kept it low, because louder meant there would be a possibility of disturbing Her. And Dean was already pretty sure She didn’t get as much sleep as she needed.

So he’d give Her this last hour of the drive—going a little slower to extended the time—and he’d let himself look at Her a little more when she couldn’t see.

Then he’d park the car in the motel lot, mutter to Sam that he needed to work out how to get Her up without getting himself stabbed, and steel himself as he exited the car.

He couldn’t care. It would be unfair to Her for Dean to care, when he’d be gone in five months.

Maybe, if he repeated it enough in his head, it would feel true.

Dean stopped in front of the room from Ruby’s message to Sam, and he’d barely had a chance to raise his fist to knock before the door swung open, and Ruby was glaring at him from the other side.

“Where’s Sam.”

“Hi, Dean.” He muttered, shoving past Ruby with an eye roll. “Thanks for taking time to get the thing for me, I’m going to try and not be a fucking bitch for five seconds to show my gratitude-“

“I’m not going to be grateful when you probably didn’t to shit.” Ruby crossed her arms, turning to him with narrowed eyes. “Where’s Sam.”

“I’m here,” Sam’s head poked around the door frame, a tense frown on his face. “Dean, she’s not moving-“

Dean froze at the foot of the bed. “What do you mean, she’s not moving-“

“She woke up, but she said she just wants to stay in the car-“

“She can’t stay in the car, Sammy, she has the arrowhead and we- shit, we just got jumped by demons-“

Ruby stared between them, her eyes wide. “You just got- who the hell are you talking about-“

“Oh, yeah, you guys haven’t met yet.” Sam swallowed, running a hand through his hair. “I- uh- You remember how I mentioned that girl Dean used to hunt with-“

“You told Ruby about her?!” Dean hissed, and Sam shot him an apologetic look.

“Just like, once-“

“Wait,” Ruby looked between them, said Her name, and Dean was going to rip out Her tongue. The bitch shouldn’t be allowed to say Her name. Nothing evil should even be allowed to know about Her. “She’s here?”

“Yeah,” Dean narrowed his eyes. “You got a problem with that?”

“Of course I do, you two idiots weren’t supposed to tell anyone what you were doing-“

“You don’t get to tell us what we do and don’t do,” Dean hissed, his glare turning to a very worried looking Sam. “She’s not coming out of the car?”

Sam shook his head. “No, uh-“

“I’ll take care of it.” He grunted, not looking at Ruby as he moved back to the door, clapping Sam on the shoulder with short words. “You kids keep it in your pants while I get her majesty inside.”

Dean didn’t bother to wait for Ruby to make a snide remark, just marching to the Impala and opening the back door, glaring down and where She still lay.

“C’mon, Princess, we’ve landed-“

“Don’t care.” She mumbled, twisting onto Her side and burying Her face in the seat. “I’m fine here, Dean.”

Dean jaw clenched. “Fine, just- give me the arrowhead thingy-“

“No.”

Dean grunted Her name. “You can wallow in the car all you freakin’ want, but we need that arrowhead-“

“Why.”

“The hell do you mean why, the whole point of that whole damn thing-“

“Why was it the point?” She rolled onto Her back, meeting Dean’s eyes with raised brows. “Who would want this thing?”

“Ruby wants it, and she’s going to be a real bitch if we don’t give it to her-“

“Should I give it to Her?”

Dean stared at Her, saying her name slowly. “What the hell are you talking about.”

“You told me not to trust her, Dean.” She held his gaze, and Dean felt like She looking right down into the pit. Daring him to admit something he didn’t understand. “Why should I give her the arrowhead if I shouldn’t trust her.”

It took a second for Her words to sink in. She was just watching him, a challenging expression on Her pretty face, and when it clicked, Dean had to go rigid and still to stop himself from crashing down into Her pouting, drawn lips.

She was taking him seriously. She was taking Dean—Dean, of all damn people—and his opinion and trust of Ruby, seriously. She wasn’t trusting Ruby because he told Her not to, and there wasn’t an ounce of doubt in Her voice. It had been flat, pointed, filled with that same dry tone She’d used when she’d asked Dean a rhetorical question about a hunt or a monster She’d already known everything about. The voice She used when she was half quizzing him, but She’d also been in charge of designing all the answers.

He couldn’t think about that. Couldn’t sit in how it made him stand a little taller, how Her gaze on his was almost certainly looking all the way into him, how She was seeing into every piece and sunken hollow in Dean’s body and not moving away.

Why the hell couldn’t She just move away.

He couldn’t have this. He couldn’t have Her. Dean needed to keep moving, and Her looking at him like that—like She could see him, like he was real, like She wanted to fall up into him just as bad as he wanted to tumble down to Her—made him want to stay in this parking lot for the entirety of his remaining months.

“We still gotta work with the bitch,” Dean said Her name, forcing his gaze to remain on Her’s, all while trying to remember how he’d ever managed to convince Her to do anything. “She’s our best line to Lilith-“

“That can’t be true.”

Dean blinked at Her. “You got a better idea?”

“No. But I could find one.”

“You planning to find it in the car?”

She scowled. “Shut up-“

“Look, you-“ Dean sighed, running a hand over his face. “You don’t need to give it to Ruby. But you need to come inside.”

Her eyes narrowed, Her mouth opening to probably say something harsh and firm along the lines of shove it up your ass, Winchester, you don’t tell me what to do, but Dean pushed on before She could.

“Please?” He watched Her carefully, trying not to get lost in how She was blinking at him, how he could move just a few inches and brush the hair off Her face, trace his fingers over her parted lips. “Can’t just leave you alone in the car at 3am. You never know when more demons might jump out of the bushes, sweetheart.”

“It’s three in the-“ She cut Herself off with a yawn, and God, she could be real damn cute when She wasn’t glaring at him.

“C’mon, Princess.” Dean nodded to the motel room, hoping She was too tired to hear the affection in his voice. “Let’s go.”

When She pushed herself to her feet, Dean’s hand almost shot out to rest on Her lower back and guide her inside.

He regained control of his body at the last second, and flinched back. He was falling again. Further and further every time, because he always thought he’d reached the deepest part of this strange pull to Her, and he was always wrong.

She didn’t see it. Didn’t see how he recoiled from Her body. Shit, Dean hoped She hadn’t seen it. That might be the line crossed—might be something She took as Dean hating her, when he couldn’t, he didn’t know how—and Dean didn’t want to lose Her. He would. He’d have to.

But not now.

Not when She was listening to him. Not when he could feel something start to bloom to the right of his heart, because She was trusting him. Against all odds and logic and reason, She was trusting Dean. He didn’t understand it. He never did. But this was good, and it would all be gone soon regardless, and Dean can’t be allowed to have something so good just to break it, but he also couldn’t live with himself if he shattered Her without having her at all.

His head was spinning around that idea. How could She still trust Dean, he was Dean, he was damned and selfish and mean to Her, but she still trusted him-

He almost missed the chorus of shouts that broke through the motel room.

She flying at Ruby, knife in hand and eyes slightly crazed, blocked only by Sam jumping in Her path and holding Her back as Ruby scrambled away.

“What the fuck-“

“Let go of me!” She was screaming, thrashing in Sam’s hold and watching Ruby with a slightly crazed expression. “Sam- Fucking let go- I- I can’t-“

Sam said Her name, his voice in the calming tone he used on the vics. “That’s just Ruby, she’s an ally-“

“Just an ally?” Ruby shot him a glare. “Ouch, Sammy, I thought we were friends-“

“I- Maybe wait until after I calm her down to start yelling at me-“ Sam cut himself off with a groan as She elbowed him in the gut, but didn’t waver his hold. “Fuck-“

“Let- Sam, let me go- I need to- fuck- Dean!” She screamed for him, and whatever daze Dean had been shocked into was destroyed by the sound of it. “Dean, it’s a- Dean-“

“Fucking hell,” Ruby shook her head slightly, her back still pressed to the wall, her body a little more rigid than Dean had seen it before. “She’s a dramatic one, isn’t she-“

“Don’t talk about her like that.” Dean snapped, giving Ruby a firm, harsh, don’t fucking test me, bitch, glower before taking Her face between his hands, lowering his voice until only She could really hear it. “You need to calm down, Princess-“

She shook Her head, hair sliding over Her brow, and Dean had a striking realization that this was the closest he’d been to Her in over two years.

“Dean, she’s- If- It’s wrong- Something’s wrong-“

“Ruby’s a demon,” he said Her name carefully, scanning over Her open features. “You knew that-“

“I- I’m not-“ She shook Her head, Her voice more panicked by the second. “It’s wrong, Dean, something’s wrong-“

“I know. Just, son of a bitch-“

He gave in. Dean let his control slip just a little, gave into his every deeply rooted and natural instinct, and ran his thumb down Her nose.

The effect was almost immediate. Her eyes closed slowly, the tension leaving Her expression and body as she half-slumped into him, and this was everything Dean had been trying to avoid, but he also couldn’t ignore how his own bones felt lighter in his body, how the world felt bigger—in a relieving, colorful and bright way that made Dean’s head not feel like a weight on his neck—because She wasn’t freaking out.

He moved Her to the bed without a word, letting Her lie flat on her back and curling his fingers to stop himself from falling further—from tracing Her cheekbones and tucking Her hair behind her ears—and only managed to remember they weren’t alone in the whole universe because Ruby coughed behind him.

“What the hell was that-“

“She must have, uh-“ Sam swallowed, glancing to Her on the bed as he said Her name. “Are you-“

“I’m fine.” She muttered, eyes still closed as She twisted a ring on her finger. “Forgot she was a demon. Sorry.”

Lie.

That was a lie.

Dean frowned at Her, keeping his voice level and casual. “How’d you manage to remember-“

“I must have flashed my eyes.” Ruby jumped in, and she hadn’t moved from her spot on the wall. “Happens sometimes.”

Sam shot Dean a confused, slightly questions look, and Dean gave a small shake of his head.

“I’ve never seen you do that shit by accident, Ruby-“

“Well you don’t look at me, Dean, so kindly stop being an ass and have your girlfriend hand over the arrowhead.”

Dean scowled, but couldn’t bring himself to properly protest the girlfriend thing. Not when his brain was still in a scratching loop of Her face so close, Her warm cheeks under his hands, the intoxicating smell of that goddamn fruit dragging him higher and higher-

“No.” She muttered from the bed, and when Her eyes opened they found Dean’s so fast he’d have thought he was a magnet. “It’s staying with me.”

Ruby’s eyes narrowed as she pushed off the wall, Dean body moved a slight inch to the side—just enough to stop Ruby if she tried something on his- his whatever She was—and Sam sighed.

“Oh, shit.”

“What do you mean, no?” Ruby sneered, taking a slow step forward. “I sent you to get it for me, you can’t just keep it-“

“You ever heard of finders keepers?” Her voice was bored, and whatever panic Ruby’s black eyes had sparked in Her seemed to have vanished entirely. “This is that.”

Ruby scoffed. “That doesn’t work here, you spoiled brat-“

Something hot filled Her eyes, and Dean felt like something was rotting in his chest.

“That’s rude.” She cut Ruby off with a shrug, nothing in Her tone shifting, but Her eyes remained different. Dean wasn’t sure anyone else had noticed. “And I’m sorry, but I’ve never been good at being peer pressured. Try again later.”

“Later? Are you-“ Ruby whipped around to snap at Sammy. “Make her give me my arrowhead.”

“I- uh-“ Sam glanced to Dean, his face filled with worry. “I’m not-“

“Shut it, Ruby.” Dean grunted, and Sam’s whole body seemed to slump with relief. “If her majesty says no arrowhead, you don’t get an arrowhead.”

Ruby glared at him. “Are you fucking kidding me-“

“I dunno,” Dean looked to Her with raised brows, and he could’ve sworn he saw Her mouth tug slightly upwards. “You kidding, sweetheart?”

“Not really, no.”

“Alright.” He shrugged, turning back to Ruby with a shrug. “You heard the lady. No arrowhead.”

Ruby’s jaw twitched. “This is stupid, I mean, even for you, Dean-“

“It’s not stupid.” She snapped from the bed, and Dean glanced over to find Ruby on the end of one of Her coldest, most threatening glares. “I’m holding onto it. No one else.”

“You could try and take it from her,” Dean suggested, crossing his arms over his chest. “But I’ll warn you, she plays it real fast and loose with that knife.”

There was a long, silent stand-off—Sammy shifting on his feet in the background, looking around the group like he was trying to work out which bomb in a pile would go off first—and Ruby caved first.

“Fine.” Ruby sighed, shooting Her a glare. “Be a fucking child. In the meantime, we need to go back to how Sam said you three got jumped by demons.”

“Jumped is a strong word,” She muttered, arms wrapping around Her stomach. “More like snuck up on-“

“This isn’t a joke.” Ruby snapped. “If demons are following you, it’s because of the arrowhead, which means more will be coming if we don’t do something about it.”

She sat up on the bed, an odd and unreadable expression on Her face, but before Dean could ask what the hell it was for, Sam was talking.

“They were- uh-“ He looked to Dean and Her, his voice filled with slight nerves. “They were green? The demons-“

“Green?” Ruby stared at Sam, the almost frightened look returning to her face. “Sam, what the hell do you mean they were green-“

“He means they were green, genius.” Dean muttered, rolling his eyes. “Green smoke, green eyes. Green-“

“Demons.” Ruby was shaking her head, the movement almost frantic. “For- God, for fuck’s sake, can you two not making anything easy-“

“Do you know what they are?” She was fully sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing Her palm with a thumb as Her attention fixed on Ruby. “The green demons, have you heard of them-“

Ruby let out a dry laugh. “Of course I’ve heard of them. They, shit, they’re like nightmares. In hell we use them to scare little baby demons into brushing their fucking teeth-“

Dean frowned. “Hold up, you’ve got baby demons-“

“Obviously not, dumbass, I’m just trying to drive home how fucked we are-“

She took a long breath, pushed off the bed, and Dean was worried he was going insane. He thought he saw Ruby fucking flinch at Her movement.

“Ruby.” She said, and that was the tone She used on a hunt. When She wasn’t looking for anyone to argue with Her, and wasn’t going to give way for the opportunity. “What are the green demons.”

“Hell’s Assassins.” Ruby said, her words pushed through teeth. “They do things that are above every other demon’s pay grade, usually staying in the shadows and only showing themselves when there’s no other option. If they’re out now, that means, shit-“

“We’re screwed.” Sammy muttered, and Ruby nodded.

“Royally fucked. Our best bet is throwing them off the trail.” Ruby sighed, started to ramble about how if they could convince the green-eyed douchebags that they’d taken the arrowhead somewhere else and dropped it, maybe they could buy enough time to figure out how to avoid them once they worked out it had been a trick, but Dean wasn’t listening.

He was looking at Her.

And She looked horrible.

Drop dead gorgeous—just as She always was—but horrible. Sick. She looked truly, awfully, deeply sick again. Sunken and afraid and small, curled into Herself and eye screwed tight, and this was worse than any of the fear because Dean felt like he needed to do something, but he wasn’t a healer, he’d break Her further and She’d leave for good once more, and it would kill him. He was an asshole, and if She walked away now—right as he was starting to see parts of him that had been hollow and cracked fuse back together, brighter and stronger than before—it would kill Dean before the contract even got the chance to catch up with him.

But Her obvious pain was clawing at Dean’s throat and burning over his skin, he needed to fix it, needed to make things better for Her, everything had to be better for Her-

“I’ll take Sam, then.” Ruby’s words cut through his thoughts, and Dean turned with a scowl.

“Take Sam where-“

“To drive off the demons, you meat-headed idiot-“

“Shut up.” She snapped from the bed, and Dean wasn’t imagining it. Ruby flinched. The bitch was actually fucking afraid of Her.

Which was understandable.

She could be scary.

And right now, with Her furiously beautiful features and firm glare, She was downright terrifying.

“Don’t talk to him like that,” She muttered. “And you’re not just taking Sam-“

“I’m- I think it’s a good plan.” Sam scratched his neck, shooting Her an apologetic look. “I mean, she’s right, Ruby. Talk to Dean like that again and I won’t hold her back when she tries to carve your eyes out, but I’ll go with you. For the team.”

The team. They were a team. And She and Sam were standing up for him, and cared about him enough to maul Ruby or put up with her for an extended amount of time, and this exactly what Dean was afraid of-

“You two will have to go on lockdown,” Ruby snapped, and Dean didn’t miss how she was standing a little too tall. Too guarded. “Buddy system to get food, doors shut day and night, no one in or out that’s not me or Sammy-“

Sam frowned. “Don’t call me that. Or I’m not driving these demons off with you.”

“Well, Sammy, you don’t really have a choice. Just like Elizabeth and Darcy,” Ruby turned her smirk of Her and Dean. “Are going to have to hole up here. Together. Just them, all week.”

“All-“ She swallowed, and something stung at Dean’s heart at the expression on Her face. “Can’t we just go to Bobby’s-“

“In Dakota?” Ruby laughed. “We don’t have time for that. Besides, we’re taking the car-“

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Like hell you’re taking my car-““Don’t worry, Sammy will drive. Ready?”

Sam blinked. “I- are we leaving now-“

“Like I said, we don’t have time. Those things- They’re a bigger threat than Lilith. So unless you’re going to hand over the arrowhead-“

“Not a chance.” Her chin raised slightly, and Dean couldn’t stop a smirk at the sour expression on Ruby’s face.

“Fine. Have fun on lockdown.”

Everything moved in a flash. Ruby and Sam got stopped at the door as She moved in front of it—Dean didn’t know how She was suddenly back to her usual, sharp and quick self, but he did know that Ruby froze at the sight of Her in their path—and She demanded the full, detailed plan. Ruby and Sam were going to draw the green-eyed demons away by fucking off to Oklahoma, She and Dean were going to stay here and keep the arrowhead safe, and once they were in the clear Sam and Ruby would come back.

And before Dean could find the proper words to express how he was so fatally close to completely giving back into Her, to moving fully back into Her orbit and doing everything he’d sworn he wouldn’t—forgiving Her again, being whatever She needed him to be, trying to hold Her when he’d really be nothing more than literal dirt and blood by the end of the year—Sam and Ruby were gone.

Dean was alone again.

But this was worse.

Because he was alone with Her.

And it didn’t matter what Ruby claimed.

That was a bigger threat than Lilith.

————

This is going to kill you.

You should’ve protested more. Insisted that you and Dean didn’t need to go on lockdown together, that there had to be other options.

You couldn’t think of other options, but there had to be some.

Dean wouldn’t have let you stay alone. You had to stay with the arrowhead. There was no world where you’d let Dean go off with Ruby. You didn’t even love Sam going off with Ruby, and she’d only been insulting him while casting a broader net for Dean.

Nobody should go with Ruby. But you had a feeling she wouldn’t have allowed that, just as you wouldn’t have allowed her to take Dean.

And you’re certain she’s not your biggest fan either, given how she flinched at the sight of you, even before you tried to kill her.

You’d almost let the Darkness slip there. If Sam hadn’t held you back, you would’ve let it rush out and stomp Ruby down to nothing, because you’d never seen a demon that hideous. They all had horrid, twisted and marred faces, shifting and moving in the smoke, but Ruby had been awful. Glinting and rolling and stained along her vessel like a disease.

And maybe she was just an ugly bitch.

But maybe you’d have to keep an eye on her. She’d wormed her way into Sam and Dean’s life like a parasite, and you now had to ensure they came out the other side with all their organs intact.

And that’s not your job. Not your place.

But you’re going to do it anyway.

You have to repay them somehow. For putting up with this. For putting up with you, and the danger you brought just by daring to try and breathe in their proximity.

In Dean’s proximity.

You can’t stop drawing closer and closer to Dean.

And you know he hates you. He has every right to, even if you don’t know why. You have a theory it starts and ends with John, and how you never said goodbye, but it doesn’t matter.

You’ll spend your time with him trying to keep yourself on a leash, and pretending you’re not already addicted to his voice and smell and face once more.

You’d never truly been clean of him. You’d never stopped dreaming of him, never stopped wanting him, and the White had never hesitated to whine and buck and scream for you to turn around and return to where you should be.

Wherever Dean was.

But one month back, he hates you, and you’ve never needed him more. Because he makes it easier. The pain is harsher and sharper when it comes—on worse cases and when you don’t sleep for long nights that never seem to end, until color breaks the horizon and Dean is at your side once more—but every waking moment doesn’t feel vile. Sometimes you breathe and it’s not poison in your lungs. Your heart beats and it’s a steady time that isn’t shredding itself apart. Dean brushes past you in the hall, or meets your eyes in the Impala’s mirror, and snaps your name like he cares about, and everything turns silver.

So you can’t stop trying to fix it. Dean so plainly loathes you, but then he’ll smirk at you, or laugh at a joke, or pull you away from danger, and you’ll fall further into himo. It fuels you. To patch this vast crack between you with whatever you can find, scavenging for thread that isn’t frayed in heated moments—when he cares, or when he’s furious—that fuse this back together a little more.

And God, it’s so unhealthy. How you’re scrambling to fix something you’d never had a right to break in the first place, especially when Dean doesn’t even care to see it fixed himself. When, even if you manage to salvage this, it will crumble once more when the Darkness gets a full hold of you, and everything crashes down.

But knowing that had never stopped you.

And it’s Dean. And he’s magnetic and strong and still somehow the only certain thing in the universe. You’re drowning in him every second, and the whole world has become sharp and stained in gold because he’s right there and you could touch him if you tried, so you can’t just give up. He’ll snap and you’ll snap back, but you won’t leave.

You can’t leave.

When Dean’s finally here, you don’t think you could pull fully away if you tried.

Now would be the time to learn. When you know that the demons hunting you are Hell’s fucking assassins, and they’re here for you. You’ll let Sam and Dean believe it’s the arrowhead—and you have a sense that Ruby is already aware it’s not—but it’s you. They’d been there for you, and the Darkness had started to seep out no matter how you chewed your tongue red or dug your nails to your skin, and nobody was safe with you but you still couldn’t leave.

Not when you’re locked down.

With Dean.

You won’t let him touch the arrowhead. You’d caught him, the first day, trying to shift through your jacket and pull it out while you’d been taking a shower. You’d cleared your throat, your arms crossed over your chest, and he’d turned with a wide-eyed, guilty expression.

“I- uh-“

“It’s not nice to snoop, Winchester.” You’d said, giving him a pointed look. “And it’s not there anyway.”

He’d blinked at you, but recovered quickly. Charming, boy-ish grin returning, expression a picture of mock innocence, so painfully unaware of how the White in your chest was begging you to close the space and just hold him-

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sweetheart, I was just looking for something. Is a guy not allowed to look for things anymore?”

You’d raised your brows at him. “What were you looking for?”

“Gun.”

“In my jacket?”

He’d paused at that. “Thought it was my jacket.”

“I didn’t know you wore women’s jackets, Deano.” You’d taken at step back into the bathroom, reaching for your spare towel as you continued. “You are not a good liar.”

He’d scowled. “I’m a freakin’ fantastic liar-“

You’d hummed, shooting him a look of amusement. “Sure.”

“I’m better than you are.” He’d snapped. “I always have you figured out, Princess. And I’m lying right fucking now.”

It had been hard not to wince at that one. Dean was better than you were. Everyone was.

And he could be lying, and you don’t even know about what, but he could be. And you’d deserve it. Whether it’s a punishment or just another way for Dean to hate you, you’d deserve it for making everything so much worse.

So you’d sighed, grabbed the arrowhead from folded towel, and held it up for him to see.

“Just- don’t try and take this. Don’t touch it.” You held Dean’s gaze, and there had been something hot inside of it. Something that seemed more turned on him than aimed at you.

It still hurt.

“Please.” You’d added, just because he really couldn’t touch it. “Dean, I need you to say-“

“I won’t touch it,” he’d grunted. “Bossy.”

And the White had relaxed. A little less danger for Dean to be in.

Another thing to take and let ignite you from within. To grab onto and cast around your body, until those fractured pieces could grow a little further back together, and the world could be a little more colorful.

Days later, you’re still keeping the arrowhead under your pillow. Dean hasn’t tried to take it, but there’s no other place for it to be.

It has to stay with you.

Because whatever Ruby thinks it is, she’s wrong.

There had been a brief moment of terror, when Sam had said made to kill powerful things, but then you’d looked at it and you’d known that wasn’t the truth. The weight over your chest and pressing on your lungs had been relieved, but only for a second.

Then you’d looked closer, and it was something far worse.

There were four languages carved into the jade, and one of them was shifting and strange the same way your thoughts always did when you created a ritual, the same way the words women of the high always moved on the paper. You’d told Sam it was simply witch symbols, and it hadn’t been a full lie. They were symbols, just as all letters were. And they were likely carved by a witch.

But they were likely more.

Because this thing was powerful.

And it fed the Darkness more than anything you’d seen before.

Everything was louder and bigger and sharper when you held it in your hands. Even Dean’s presences didn’t fully soften the sheer vastness of everything when the arrowhead was in your hands. The world was still silver, but it wasn’t blurred. It was harsh and bright and violent inside of you, barely contained and pressing up under your skin to be freed.

And then there was Dean. How when you hold the arrowhead, he’s not just leaving stains.

He’s branded into you.

It’s visible. You can feel it. You can fucking taste him, lingering in the back of your throat despite never having been that close to him before. He’s embedded in your chest and marked all over you in places that he hasn’t touched in years. There’s something faint golden painted all over your body—tangled in your hair and glowing in your guts—and it spurs all those fractured pieces into an overwhelming frenzy. They grasp onto every bit of light the gold provides and toss it all over your body until even the Darkness feels like it’s blended into the White and everything is all just silver.

But then you drop the arrowhead, your hand growing weak from just how fucking much everything is, and it all becomes numbed pain and shifting gold on the couch and Dean’s bed.

So whatever the arrowhead is, Ruby can’t have it. And Dean can’t know what it is, or why you keep staring at him with a tight frown when you hold it, watching his… everything. How he’s like a walking, breathing pillar of gold.

“Take a picture, Princess.” He mutters from the table, his attention on the laptop Sam had left you. “It’ll last longer.”

You scowl, shoving the arrowhead back under your pillow. “Shut up.”

He does.

You don’t think it’s because you told him to.

About three days of your lockdown have passed. Dean’s barely speaking to you.

It’s eating you alive.

Every day has been the same. You exist in Dean’s gravity, and he doesn’t even know you can’t pull away, and time passes in barely a crawl. You watch the tiny box TV and flip through the motel’s provided magazines and your own books, while Dean drinks and hunches over Sam’s laptop.

Half your trash is beer bottles, and you haven’t even had one. You still don’t drink—now doesn’t really feel like the time to start—and Dean probably remembers that, but it still worries you. You know he’s had a rough two years, that he had to watch John die, and Sam almost die, and fight Azazel, and deal with the Devil’s Gate, but this seems worse. Dean drank before.

He didn’t quite drink like this.

And he still won’t really look at you.

The most you get from him is grunts about food, strange looks that end the moment you catch his eyes on yours, and muttered words about how Sam sent a message, and he and Ruby are still alive.

It’s moves the Darkness to an edge. Everything is still silver, but the Darkness is still a part of that, and it’s volatile. Hateful and wrathful. Cracking over your ribs and rotten on your tongue, and at night—when Dean snores in his bed and you stare at the ceiling with your knife in hand—you feel so fucking sick once more.

And this is another one of those nights. The day had been the same as all the others, and Dean’s fast asleep across the room, and you allow yourself to look at him.

He’s still so pretty. There are a few more lines on his face and a slightly heavier expression on his face, but he’s still Dean. Still the best thing you’ve ever seen, and the only one that had ever managed to make you falter. To sit down and want to stay there, to have that strong, unexplainable pull that makes you watch him in the dark like a creep, that drags you down, down, down when he’s only existing near you.

It’s just as terrifying as it’s always been. How Dean is just more. How he was like a phantom behind you in the years apart, and how he’s all the world in front of you. How there had been moments—while you’d been apart with no belief you’d ever fall back into him again, when you’d skipped every town you set foot in and never allowed yourself to stop moving—where someone at a bar had smirked at you and asked for your name, and you’d given it, and when they’d repeated it with a drawl and heated promise in their eyes, all you’d been able to think was not Dean.

And he’s right there. In the dark.

And you’re not running.

But you are growing sicker. Watching him makes the White rear its head, and that sparks the Darkness, and Dean has always been able to set you off more than anyone else, and he’s just lying there and looking like everything you could ever need, and you’re losing control.

You push out of your bed—holding your breath and taking light steps on the creaking floor—and move to the bathroom.

You can’t use your usual methods. Dean would wake from the sound or notice the blood in the morning, and you don’t need that right now. So you take the second-best choice and turn the sink on, letting the hot water flow until steam is rising from it, and run your hands under it.

Your skin feels like it’s raw and peeling. It fucking hurts, and you might not be able to really turn a page in the morning without wincing.

But the Darkness sinks back down.

So it works.

You bow your head, eyes squeezed shut, and push on. You need the Darkness to go be tamed, to go so deep into your body that you’ll be able to go at least the whole day with no fear of losing it, with no fear of hurting-

“You shouldn’t do that.”

When your eyes shoot open, he’s right there. Dean’s frowning at you from the door, supporting himself with one hand on the frame and rubbing his eyes as he speaks.

“’S not good for you.”

“Yeah, well,” you narrow your eyes at him, furious at yourself for not locking the door, furious at him for thinking he has any right to tell you what to do. He doesn’t know you’d follow him anywhere, and trust him with your soul in his hands. As far as Dean’s concerned, you’re nothing, so he doesn’t get to tell you what to do. “You shouldn’t drink.”

He blinks at you. “What.”

“Half the motel room is beer bottles.” You snap. “And if you’re allowed to do that, I’m allowed to do this.”

“You-“ Dean jaw twitches, his eyes darting to your hands, still pressed until the steaming water. “There’s no fucking reason for you to be doing that shit-“

“Is there a reason for you to drink?”

He scowls. “That’s different, Princess-“

“Is it?” You hum, looking back to your hands. They hurt. You won’t pull them away. “How?”

“That’s not your business- It just fuckin’ is-“

“So this isn’t yours.” You shrug, letting out a long, slow breath. “Go back to bed, Dean.”

There’s a long moment where you can still see him in the doorway. You think he’s going to argue, or push you, or keep trying to convince you to step back from the sink.

But the floorboards creak, and he’s gone. You follow him, a handful of minutes later.

Neither of you mention it in the morning.

“We need to get more food,” Dean mutters that afternoon. “But Sammy took my fucking car-“

“There’s the shop down the street we used last time.” You don’t look up from your book, because if you do, you’ll meet Dean’s eyes and fall a little further. “It’s like, a five-minute walk.”

“I don’t wanna use that place, they didn’t have bacon-“

“They were out of bacon. Three days ago.” You sigh, glaring at the words on your page. You’ve read them ten times before, and you’re getting bored, but Dean will only talk to you about necessity so repetition is your only option. “I’m sure they’ve restocked.”

Dean mutters something under his breath you can’t hear, and don’t really want to.

But you’re right. When you’ve dressed and walked down to the tiny, acceptably useful grocery store—Dean one pace behind you, your body leaning slightly back as if it can’t help but try to be a little closer to him where it’s allowed—they’ve restocked on bacon.

“I’ve got a list of what we need,” you’re trying to ignore how he’s shifting at your side, like he can’t wait to move away. You wish you could blame him. “Find whatever else you want, and try not to go overboard.”

“You can’t go overboard on food, Princess.” Dean’s words are casual. Easy. Your heart skips and beat then freezes in your chest. “You try not to get lost.”

You glare up at him. “I am not going to get lost, asshole-“

He’s already walking away.

It takes all your willpower not to chase after him.

The grocery store really is small, and you don’t need much. One of the—countless—amazing things about Dean is how he’s a man of habit. Even after two years apart, you can still predict him like he’s the moon in the sky. Beer, jerky, the bacon he was so whiny about, a few pre-made pies. A lot of butter and meatballs because you refuse to not take advantage of having a real, small kitchen for the first time in years, and Dean will be eating with you whether the asshole likes it or not.

And you don’t know where he’s wandered off to at first, but you realize quickly it’s not as far as you thought.

Because you glance over your shoulder at the exact right time, and Dean’s there. Half hidden behind a shelf, glaring at a bag of vegetable broth that is so obviously a cover, you almost laugh.

You don’t know what the fuck he’s doing.

You’re too starved and desperate for his proximity—how easily everything is bright and silver in your body—to confront him.

So the rest of the grocery trip passes exactly like that.

You wander the isles to cross every item off your list. Dean stays several, poorly hidden paces behind you like some kind of oddly trained guard dog. You indulge him and pretend he’s being stealthy, when in reality he’s just a massive man very obviously following you around in a grocery store.

At one point you catch his eye and raise your brows—because you just can’t fucking help it—and you could swear he blushes before he looks away.

This is so strange. He’s barely looked at you all week, and suddenly he’s doing this.

You wish you could bring yourself to care about that a little more.

Around the canned goods isle—chicken soup because it’s easy—a woman approaches Dean. She’s not a demon, just a pretty human with soft eyes that are fixed on your—not your—Dean, but you still feel something stabbing and biting in your gut when he even looks at her.

It’s pathetic. You have no claim there, no valid reason to want to march over and link your arm through Dean’s like you used to, to suddenly wish he’d just fucking stop the whole act and come stand at your side, but that doesn’t stop the feeling

Or the way the whole world—in and out of your body—sings when Dean dismissed the woman barely a chance. When he glances at her, shrugs off her overly sweet words, and doesn’t shift at her fluttering lashes. When she shuffles off with slumped shoulders, and Dean keeps up his stupid little charade of trailing you through the store.

He probably was just being cautious. You’re both a little wired and vigilant given the whole situation.

But those featured pieces still bloom and grow along your body. And you can’t bring yourself to be bitter about it.

Neither of you mention anything when you meet back at the checkout isle. Dean shoves his hands in his pockets with a short nod and grunt of done, stays his usual one step behind you, and pretends nothing odd happened at all.

“I got you one case of beer,” you say as you approach the front of the line. “If you want more, I’d go get it now-“

“One is fine.” He leans slightly forward, and you can feel the heat from his body, and he smells like grass and spice- “Where the hell is my bacon.”

You turn to glare at him, and fuck, that’s a mistake. He’s very close, and you can see the slight crook of his nose and how full his lips are, and if you moved your hand up a little you could trace along his jaw-

“Did you forget my fucking bacon-“

You pull yourself together, and give him a flat look. “Such little faith, Deano-“

“I’m not seein’ it-“

You shift around the basket, pushing items aside as you take a step forward, revealing the three packs of bacon and placing them on the checkout belt.

“It was the first thing I got,” you shrug, moving the rest of the food out of the basket. “Add whatever you grabbed to the belt.”

He hadn’t grabbed anything. You were pretty fucking certain Dean hadn’t actually gotten anything, because he’d spent the whole time following you. The only reason he missed the bacon was because you’d gotten it first, and he’d been-

Getting something. Dean reaches into his jacket and pulls out a few candy bars and fruits, dropping them onto the belt without a glance in your direction.

“What-“

“They’re for you.” He mutters. He’s still not looking at you. “You never freakin’ remember to get yourself something.”

You blink at him, and nod slowly.

He got you things. He’d followed you through the grocery store and got you things, but he still won’t look at you. He’ll barely speak to you.

Another day passes, and Dean won’t just look at you.

You’re not sleeping. And that’s no different than normal, but this feels worse. When it had been you and Jo—before your party got crashed—Jo had agreed to do shifts. She’d known what was happening, known that there was no world where you’d sleep easy, especially not with another person in the room, and she’d talked you into rotating schedules.

It had worked.

And in the past month with Sam and Dean, you’d had your own room. If demons burst through the door, you’d be the only target.

But now you’re putting Dean in danger.

So you don’t sleep. You keep yourself functional with quick naps in the middle of the day—when Dean’s awake and not looking at you—but you can feel cracks starting to form over your head. Somethings set to snap.

You’re going to break.

You can feel it coming, like a storm moving in and pressure shifting in the air.

Your only hope is to hold it down. You try to hold it down. The hot water is running out faster, and the skin around your nail is raw and bloody, and Dean still won’t look at you-

And your guard slips.

When they arrive, you’re not ready.

Your head is a little fogged. You’d left your knife on your bed, in your jacket from when you’d gone to the motel lobby for more toilet paper. Your back is to the door because the sun is too bright, and it’s giving you a headache. You’re curled on the couch because everything hurts, and Dean’s still in the lobby grabbing ice and you wish he’d just finish the fuck up, because you need him close but you’re never allow to say that-

You’re too tired to think anything of the first bang on the door. It’s likely just housekeeping, even though you’d put the do not disturb sign up, and carried the toilet paper back yourself.

The second bang makes you frown, and you can’t see anyone outside.

Third bang. Your voice is dripping with exhaustion when you raise it, trying not to flinch at the fourth bang.

“Sorry, we have do not disturb-“

“Don’t be sorry, darlin’.” A drawling, almost honeyed voice drawls from the other side of the door, and your blood runs cold. “And I can promise this ain’t gonna be disturbin’ if you make it easy.”

You try to launch to the bed, to grab your knife, but the door crashes open before your jelly-like body can even get off the bed.

You manage to scramble to the edge of the mattress, grabbing the arrowhead and shoving it into your jeans, but you’re barely turning before the violent, rioting and furious green grabs you by the throat and yanks you up-

Instinct kicks in, and you ram your knee into the vessels gut. It’s enough for the grip to falter, enough for you to pry his grip off your neck with shaking finger and scramble back, but there are three more and one grabbing your arms and the second has it’s knife aimed right into your chest-

“Dean!” It’s the only thing you can think to say. Scream. Pray. “Dean, I- Dean!”

You hear a gunshot go off, and a choked sound leaves your throat, but no abnormal pain comes.

The demon behind you slumps, you got right down with its weight, and the one with the knife stumbles right over your head.

You’re still too tired to fight properly. But you’re not useless. You slam your body into the knifed demon’s legs, and roll away as he topples down.

Then you look up, see Dean’s jaw clenched as he wrestles with the fourth demon, and demon you’d kneed earlier is coming up right behind him with the knife-

It wouldn’t have killed you. If the demon on the floor had gotten you, you’d have screamed and shattered but lived.

You don’t think Dean will live.

And the rush kicks in.

You launch yourself at the demon that’s behind Dean, wrapping your arms around it’s neck and squeezing with all the strength in your body.

Dean turns with wide eyes and a roar of your name, and you rear all your body weight forward. Slamming your demon into the one that Dean’s had been fighting, because the dumbass hadn’t knocked him down and he’d been barreling at Dean like a tank.

You jump off right in time, and Dean catches you. Steadying you on your feet and scanning over your face like he’s looking for something, opening his mouth to say something but shutting it closed when the still conscious demon on the floor start to stumble upwards.

Dean shoves you behind him and draws his gun once more, the shot echoing around the motel room as you dunk under his arm and run to the bed-

Dean shouts your name, and you can feel his gaze searing into your skull. “What the fuck are you-“

You grab your knife—jumping up on the bed and spinning it in your hand—and launch forward, grabbing Dean’s head and shoving it down as you land on the first demon’s shoulder’s driving your knife right into its chest.

These vessels weren’t going to live. You hadn’t bothered to tell Sam and Dean at the gas station—it was already a shit day, and you didn’t want to be fucking bummer—but you’d learned the hard way that the moment a green demon possessed a human, they were done. That ripping and tearing violence inside of them killed them the same as any bullet or blade.

So you don’t pull punches.

And you tear your knife right down the demon’s skin.

Dean catches you again, when the demon under you collapses. Holds you right to his side as he shoots the last demon—crawling up behind you with a blade angled at your calf—and keeping you there in the long moments after.

He looks like an avenging angel or something else stupidly beautiful. The arrowhead is still a weight in your pocket, and Dean’s muttering words you can barely hear over the ringing in your ears, and he’s glowing and golden and powerful—rioting in an almost righteous way, in stark contrast to the vicious fury of the green demons, rocketing out of their vessels and screeching out the windows—and you put him in danger.

Dean could’ve died. You could’ve gotten him killed.

You could’ve killed him.

And suddenly you’re not your own anymore. The rush fades and it’s all too real and Dean’s right here, but you could’ve lost him and had no one to blame but yourself because you’re cancerous and evil and wrong and can’t just save him—save something so permanent and beautiful that you have no right to be protected or served by in any way—because you’re the bad thing, you’re the sickness, you’re worse than the demons. And you’re everywhere. You’re the jagged pain of the shattered windows and the ache of the cracked walls and the shredded fever of the torn blankets and ruined couch-

“Hey,” Dean’s muttering your name, his voice low and firm, and it’s the only thing in the world that isn’t painful. “You’re good. We’re both alive, Princess, don’t- Shit, don’t cry-“

Something warm but not burning is cupping your face, and tracing your cheeks, brushing away a white-hot stain that had begun to wash out of your stinging eyes-

You are crying. And Dean—those were his hands, touching you carefully, like he was afraid you’d shatter in his hold when you’ve never felt more whole—is wiping away your tears.

You’re fucking pathetic.

And you can’t stop yourself leaning into his touch, falling into his focused certainty, and letting out a shaky breath when he starts to pet down your nose and the world sinks right back into your body.

You’re only you again.

But you’re still Dean a little, too. He’s so golden and you’re molten silver a little to the right of your heart, and those fractured pieces are surging up and around you, blooming and furious and bright, so fucking bright-

It’s good Dean pulls away right then. You’d been seconds from fusing fully back together, from something not snapping apart, but into place.

You already too far gone.

You still need to be able to pretend you’re not completely, irreversibly his.

Neither of you speak. You don’t really see a reason to. Dean just watches you, and you watch him, and then you’re both moving.

The motel is trashed. Cracks mark up the wall, the bed and couch have been flipped, the door was fully crashed through, and there’s really no universe where anyone who sees this doesn’t call the cops. Ruby checked in, and the room was under her fake name and credit card, so all you and Dean need to do is leave.

Dean starts to gather everything together—including your blood-stained jacket, the arrowhead stuffed safely in the jacket—as he calls Sam, telling him what happened, and that you’re skipping town. You head outside while that fun conversation happens, surveying the cars and picking the fanciest, fastest one you can find.

“No.” Dean snaps, glowering down at you in the driver’s seat. “You’re fucking begging for attention in that this thing, sweetheart, cops will catch us in an hour-“

“So we’ll drop this at 59 minutes.” You say, holding his gaze. “And take the train from there. This car only needs to get us the furthest away, not fully out.”

Dean scowls. “I am not taking the train-“

“Yeah, you are.” You nod your head to the trunk. “Pack up and haul ass, car boy. Now.”

You get a mutter of fucking trains, but Dean does what you’re telling him and soon you’re bound for Chicago, staring at Dean from across the train compartment.

You’d gotten a compartment. And a bed.

One bed.

You’re going to stab someone. You did not pay almost two thousand dollars on a fake credit card for a double private room, only to be stuck in your most beautiful, terrifying nightmare.

Sleeping next to Dean.

You’d been careful. You’d been so fucking careful, for so many years, to not give in to being that more for Dean. Because it would never be enough. Dean could’ve flirt and tease all he wanted, he never wouldn’t convinced you to share his bed because you’d never just share his bed. It would’ve been a catalyst. Something would’ve shifted in you, and there would never be any coming back from Dean. There was the whole, vast, amazing and horrible world, and then there was Dean, and he could maybe be yours.

He’d never be yours. You weren’t something someone wanted to have.

But that being the truth didn’t stop the longing or craving or need. It never had. So you’d made it clear that you barely slept in the same room, and you never shared a bed.

And almost six years of effort—four if you didn’t count those two years apart, which was still far too many years—were crumbled because you said room for two people, the ticket lady added who are sharing a bed in her head, and you’d only caught it when it was too late.

It could be fine. You feel like you’re about to pass out but you’re also far too paranoid to sleep, Dean had been up at the crack of dawn to steal all the hot water and it’s almost midnight, and this is a twenty-one hour ride so eventually you’ll both need to sleep.

You could stagger it. Dean could sleep, then you could sleep.

But then he’d realizes you don’t actually sleep, and that would be a whole thing that you didn’t need. You know you need rest. You are perfectly aware sleep is good for you.

Every single nerve is alight in your body with fear that a demon will crash through that door as well, the Darkness is one wrong nightmare or sound from bursting out of your body, and guilt is swollen in your stomach and sticking in your throat as one single thought loops in your head.

You could’ve gotten Dean killed.

He could’ve died. He’s fine—his arms crossed as the glares at the room around you, splayed out over the compartment’s chairs—but Dean could’ve died. Because of you. Because you’d dragged the green demons there, and you’d put him in danger, and you’d been useless, you’d barely held it together, you hadn’t held it together, and Dean had been there to pull you back up but what if he wasn’t-

“Stop doing that.”

You blink at him, he jerks his head to your hands, and you realize that blood is running down your fingers.

You hadn’t even felt it.

And you make a choice. He needs to know. He needs to understand that you don’t mean to, you never mean to, and he’s in danger as long as he’s with you so he should run, he should kill you or put you down and then run-

“Dean.” You whisper, bracing yourself for the fallout. Telling Jo went alright, and she’d only just met you.

Dean isn’t Jo.

He’s so much more. And even just him running might break something fundamental in your body, that lives just to the right of your heart.

He grunts. “What.”

“I- the demons-“ You stare at his hands, because you can’t stand to look at his face. Maybe those same hands will be strangling you in only seconds. You’ll find out. “I- We need to talk.”

“We’re talking right freakin’ now, Princess.”

“I know, but I-“ Deep breath. Nails in your skin. Keep it together. “They were at the motel for me. The demons, they were there for me-“

“I got that, Princess.” He grunts, and your gaze shoots up find him glowering at you, his words low and his jaw clenched.

He knows. He’s known, or he figured it out, and it’s over but why didn’t he say anything and why aren’t you dead but why does he look like he wants to throttle you or pin you against something-

“You still have that freakin’ arrowhead.”

“I-“ You swallow, your brow furrowing as you stare at him.“What?”

“The damn arrow thing, that you wouldn’t give to Ruby-“

You shake your head, your voice growing a little stronger. “That’s not- I couldn’t give it her-“

”I’m not complaining about that, the bitch is a demon. You’d be better off trusting a damn witch or vamp.”

It’s hard not to flinch at that. You manage. “Then what are you-“

“You’re just-“ He scowls. “You can never fucking listen.”

You stare at him. “What?”

“I told you to fucking wait for me,” Dean snaps, sitting a little taller. “Those sons of bitches never would’ve even gotten to you if you’d just stayed with me.”

You don’t remember that. Your brain had been the same, blurred haze it is now, deprived of sleep and aching for Dean while only knowing that it can’t have him.

It pokes through the fog. Dean grunting wait for me, we gotta stick together as he hunched over the ice machine, and he’d smelled so good, and you’d almost collapsed over him.

You’d barely heard him. You’d just known you couldn’t be there, or you would’ve destroyed something that already barely held together.

But Dean can’t know that. It will lead to more questions you’re not ready to answer, because he’d just said witch like it was barely better than demon, and just as bad as vampire.

You’re bending. You can’t.

So you raise your chin, and hold his gaze. “I didn’t hear you. And I’m fine-“

He scoffs. “You were fucking sobbing-“

“Because I just got attacked by demons-“

“Which happened,” he leans forward, his voice a hiss. “Because you didn’t listen to me. You never just fucking listen-“

You roll your eyes. “Fuck off, Winchester, you’re not my dad-“

“No. And that doesn’t matter. You don’t listen to anyone. You-“ He shakes his head, and you think he’s seeing right into you. Finally, really seeing just how wrong you are, and getting ready to deliver the killing blow with only his words. “You’re so goddamn stubborn, and you’re going to get yourself fucking killed and I won’t be there to save your ass-“

“I don’t need to save my ass.” You snap. “I’m fine, Dean. I can handle myself, and I’m stubborn because I know what the hell I’m doing-“

“You’re stubborn,” he sneers. “Because you can’t stand that sometimes, sweetheart, you’re fucking wrong. You don’t listen because you hate not being in control-“

It cuts deep. You can cut deeper. “At least people listen to me, Dean. At least I can tell people what to do, instead of following someone around like a fucking dog-“

“Well at least I never fucking run! At least I don’t leave people whenever things get hard, when they-“ His shout is pushed through his teeth, and it’s almost venomous. “You fucking run. You just goddamn vanish, and act sick, when you’re fine, just can’t fucking stomach having to deal with something instead of fucking running.”

“Are you talking about the-“ You gape at him, shaking your head. “I had to leave, asshole! I fucking had to-“

He rolls his eyes. “You never have to, you just didn’t want to deal with all of our shit, but you never- You just-“

“Azazel threatened me.” You hiss, the words falling out like vomit, before you can stop them. “He told me he’d kill Bobby if I didn’t vanish.”

Dean stares at you, and you hadn’t meant to tell him that. You’d meant, earlier, to explain what was wrong with you and leave John and Azazel fully out of it. Dean had loved his dad. You’d known that, and you’d known better than to make him face the horrid truth that John was a fucking asshole, shit-headed cunt-face of a father.

Maybe that’s why you still hadn’t mentioned that John had been a part of it. Dean already looks like he’s tearing his head apart trying to figure out if he should believe you for what you did say.

You don’t need to make this worse than you already have. For either of you.

“Azazel…” Dean trials off, shaking his head like he’s trying to physically remove something from his skin. “He fucking- what-“

“He said if I didn’t leave, he’d- He’d kill Bobby.” You let out a slow breath, scanning over Dean’s shocked expression. You’re a little worried he’s going to hurt himself, with how you can see his brain whirling behind his eyes.

There’s not a lot of color on his face.

“And you- You just-“ Dean’s throat bobs, and something flashes in his eyes. “You should’ve fucking told me, I would’ve protect you-“

You shake your head, and whatever burning anger in your body had been there moments before was gone.

You’re really just so fucking tired.

“You have enough people to protect, Dean.” You’re looking at his hands again. Curled back into fists. You want to touch his knuckles, a little bruised and swollen from the fight. At least press ice to them, keep them from getting worse. Keep Dean from being in pain. “And I was okay. Bobby’s okay. Nothing- I didn’t want to.” You swallow, choking on a lump in your throat. “I never wanted to.”

“Bobby- He said you were sick-“

“I am.” You mutter. “Two things can be true.”

“How?”

You frown at him. “How-“

“What’s wrong with you.”

You can’t tell him. Not now. You will, when you have more courage than a martyr and you’re feeling a little less intelligent, but not now.

Now you just give him a sad, soft smile. “My- I don’t know. I’ve never been able to figure it out.”

He nods slowly, and suddenly he won’t meet your eyes. “Sammy could look at you. He’s smart.”

“I’m smart-“

“Yeah,” he offers you his own little half-smile, and his teeth flash white in the low light of the compartment. “But you can be real dumb, Princess.”

He hasn’t said Princess like that since you returned. In a way that feels like a name, in a way that’s almost more than affectionate. Filled with an odd honor you can’t place, and tugging your own smile a little wider.

And everything blends, so easily, back to silver.

You pull out a book. Dean locks the door and starts to clean his gun, humming low music until you chuck your iPod at his face.

He grumbles, but put his earbuds in, and starts to stretch out on the seats.

It’s a silent decision he’s making himself. Dean will sleep on the seats, you’ll sleep on the bed.

You won’t sleep on the bed. You’ll pretend to, ignoring how he’s right there. You’ll stare at the ceiling and count the little dot on it to pass the time, and everything will be better in the morning, when Dean is—maybe, just maybe—your friend again, and he’s safe, and you’re in pain and exhausted, but that’s okay-

“Go to sleep,” Dean mutters your name, and you frown.

“I am asleep.”

You think you hear him chuckle. “Sleep more, than.”

“Okay.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are, De. You always are.”

You can hear his frown through the dark. “I don’t love the third degree, sweetheart-“

“You’re being dramatic.”

“Maybe. You need fuckin’ sleep.” He pauses, his voice getting slightly softer. “I’ve- You don’t sleep. You gotta sleep.”

You let out a long breath, frowning at the ceiling. “I can’t.”

“Because you’re sick?”

“Yeah.” You swallow. “It’s- Yeah.”

There’s a beat of silence, then- “What does Bobby do.”

“He-“ You swallow. “When I was younger he’d do a sweep of my room. Like a real hunt.”

“And now-“

“Nothing.”

“Oh.”

You think you can hear Dean’s brain moving, and you don’t know why this matters to him so much. It’s just sleep. You’ve lived like this forever, worse and worse over time, and eventually you’ll just pass out and everything will be fine-

“Would it help if I was there? With- uh- with my gun?”

His voice isn’t as firm as usual, and it’s almost nervous. Like he’s afraid of the answer.

And you should say no. A gun wouldn’t even do anything, not with these demons.

But you’re tired, and that always makes you weaker. And Dean’s here, and that always makes you dumber.

“Yes.” You whisper. “Please.”

You hear him moving from the seats without any further conversation, and when his weight settles beside you, his thigh presses to yours.

It would be too much if it was Dean. If his warmth wasn’t something you’d always chased after, even when you’d both be sweating in Georgia or Texas, even when your blood had been running high and the sun had been beating down on your skin.

Up close, it’s so easy to fold into. It’s soothing, and he smells like grass and spice all around you, and when your eyes flutter open for even a second the whole world is softly glowing with gold.

It’s imprinting deeper on your body, just from how close he is. Not everywhere, but close. And the gold is sinking so far down you’ll never be able to pull it back out. Those fractured pieces are so terrifyingly close to growing fully back together, and you don’t know what you’ll become when they do.

You can’t really find it in you to care.

The sound of Dean’s snoring is like a lullaby, and the smell of his is like an anesthetic and just his presence is making the world something peaceful.

For the first time in years, sleep comes fast, and you go down without a fight.

And for the first time in your life, you feel truly rested when you wake up.

End Note: Sam Winchester you are once again God’s strongest solider for not grabbing them and mashing them together like they’re barbie and ken dolls. I just know he spent his whole trip with Ruby bitching about how impossible they are. Thank you for your service my king.

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Taglist (If you want to be added, please fill out the form!)

@brtodd @artemys-ackles @sthefferrete @lyarr24 @deansbbyx

@bakugotypecrashout @kittycain @foolinthera1n @globetrotter28 @lordofthunderthr

@youdontknowe @nyrtopia @Zuberweirrd @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @panicking-outside-the-disco

@ambiguous-avery @elle14-blog1 @impala67rollingthroughtown @dumb--blonde @heyimolive

@itsdearapril @speedypersonawhispers @apobangpo-0613 @alwaystiredandconfused @kamisobsessed

@arcticwisteria @youroldfashioned @generalmoonpolice @foxyjwls007 @jackles010378

@godhelpthisbtch @ilovedeanwinchester4 @wecangetlostinthepurplerain @sleepykittycx

@immastealurkneecaps @star-yawnznn @maddie0101 @chi-raz @lori19

@wynnthewynnderful @redwinexsupernova @tiana-kh @woaheasytig3r @canibeyourghoulfriend

@lovelywebber @salemslostwitch @winchester-whiskey @and-i-wish @ghosth0ney

@funkenniffler @laurakirsten0502 @incandxscents @pillowjj @deans-yn

@kr804573 @disappearintofanfiction @jsudsgf @dclover27 @megara0224

@solsborg @spxideyver @rach5ive @sheneedsjesus @bejeweledinterludes

@nadlx33333 @dyhsversion

@jofinka @allthetroubleiveseen @krabog @emiliesspace

91 notes · View notes

dingo-ate-my-hot-lettuce-crazy · 16 hours ago

Text

Rearview Settings/Places Mood Boards

a/n: these are my fav, hope you like!

the city

-I left this open to interpretation, this isn't any set city but it is a metropolitan so choose your favorite! nyc, Chicago, Orlando, Los Angeles, anything! its a big city with its campus located throughout

garths: coffee and tea bar

silver & flames

-this is the upscale restaurant the reader and cas work at…i got bored one day and made a complete menu if anyone wants that as well……

the roadhouse bar

taglist: @globetrotter28 @supernotnatural2005 @suckitands33

13 notes · View notes

dingo-ate-my-hot-lettuce-crazy · 16 hours ago

Text

Rearview Character Mood Boards

a/n: heyyyy just wanted to give yall some visual aids to some of the character vibes !!! here we go :D

the reader/you

-so the "reader" isn't supposed to look like the women featured in here- just place yourself in their pose!

dean winchester

cas novak

charlie bradbury

jo harvelle

nick vaught

you and dean

HOPE YOU LIKE AND STAY TUNED FOR CHAPTER 4 !!

taglist: @globetrotter28 @supernotnatural2005 @suckitands33

8 notes · View notes

dingo-ate-my-hot-lettuce-crazy · 19 hours ago

Text

THE LETTERRRRR OMG im screaming and crying. deadass making myself pancakes and coffee tomorrow just to leave it out for five minutes so I can walk back out to my kitchen and pretend that its real bc wtf

dean whip that robe off me. lets forget the party

and the teASER ?? who's fucking hand is on him- that must change. some bitch is losing a hand.

amazing chapter im ready for 5 <3

The Arrangement - Chapter Four

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: Things are growing tense between the you and Dean, buried feelings seemed to be bursting at the seems. How long until they finally burst? Is the real question.

Word Count: 4.1k

Warnings/Tags: Angst, the usual pinning idiots, fluff.

AN: Okay this chapter became way too long so I had to split it 😅 call it the first half to chapter 5, where we will continue on. As always I hope you enjoy! ☺️

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist < Catch up here

After your steamy shower escapades, you’d both decided to part ways for the night. As much as you wanted to bask in the aftermath, sleeping together—actually sleeping—felt like crossing an invisible line you weren’t quite ready to acknowledge.

Luckily, you had an easy excuse. You had work in the morning, and Dean had an even earlier start for his long drive out to Stanford. And after a day filled with very thorough extracurricular activities, the moment your head hit the pillow, you were out like a light.

By the time you woke up, Dean was already gone. A small part of you felt miffed that you hadn’t gotten to see him off—not just because of whatever this thing was between you, but because, at the end of the day, he was still your best friend. And you missed him when he wasn’t around.

That little pang of disappointment eased when you spotted the note on the coffee machine, still warm from where he must have made a fresh pot before leaving.

You weren’t prepared for the wave of emotions that crashed into you at the sight of his familiar scrawl. Why did he have to be so…Dean?

Letting out a long sigh, you lightly slapped your own cheek. Snap out of it. It’s nothing new.

Dean had always been like this. A natural caretaker. Your friend. That was all.

You shoved those unwelcome feelings down, drowning them in bites of warm, buttery pancakes and strong coffee. The food did wonders for distracting your heart.

By noon, you were about ready to throw in the towel. Your caseload was piling higher by the minute, the endless spreadsheets and budget reports turning into a blur of numbers.

As the company’s-chartered accountant, you were used to the pressure—but Roman’s impulsive decision to buy into the Biggerson’s fast food chain had sent your workload into overdrive. You were now up to your eyeballs in audits and projections, making sure the company wasn’t about to haemorrhage money on a half-baked business venture.

A familiar teasing voice broke through your frazzled thoughts.

“Damn, I don’t know whether you need a drink or a cigarette.”

Spinning your chair around, you found yourself face-to-face with your favourite redhead, her signature smirk firmly in place.

“Can I have both?” you deadpanned, rubbing a hand over your already mussed-up hair. “Seriously, why couldn’t he wait until after the holidays for this manic decision? And why the hell Biggerson’s?”

Charlie plopped down onto your desk, crossing her legs as she shrugged. “Yeah, no clue. Although… Frank—”

You arched a brow. “Conspiracy-theory Frank?”

“The very one.”

Of course.

Charlie leaned in conspiratorially. “He’s convinced the company heads are actually cannibals, and this whole buyout is part of some elaborate scheme to fatten up Americans before they, and I quote, ‘chow down.’”

You burst out laughing, the stress momentarily melting away. “Wow. That’s a new one.”

“Right?” Charlie grinned before giving your arm a pat. “C’mon, let’s get some lunch. And then you can tell me why Gary looks like he’s been sucking on a lemon all morning.”

A few blocks away, you and Charlie found yourselves at Rufus’ Deli, home to some of Kansas’ finest sandwiches. Rufus himself was a legend—gruff, no-nonsense, and about as approachable as a guard dog, but no one could deny the man’s skills. His sandwiches were that good, drawing lines down the block every day.

Luckily, you and Charlie had managed to worm your way into his good graces over time. Whether it was your shared appreciation for his craftsmanship or the fact that you never tried to chat his ear off like other customers, he had developed a soft spot for you both. And that meant one very important perk—you got to skip the line.

So, when the lunch rush was in full swing and Rufus spotted you, a warm smile replacing his usual gruffness, jerking his head toward the counter. “What’ll it be today, ladies?”

You gave him your order with a grateful smile, and within minutes, you and Charlie were seated at your usual spot, tearing into your sandwiches.

“So,” Charlie mumbled around a bite of her chicken club, “wanna fill me in on the Gary sitch?”

You sighed, setting your sandwich down and swallowing before launching into the whole story. You kept the details light—omitting the drinking with Jo and the deeper parts of your frustration—but you didn’t hold back on the bare minimum effort Gary had put into your so-called relationship.

Charlie listened intently, her expression shifting from mild curiosity to full-on irritation. When you finished, she scoffed. “Damn. What a prick.”

She leaned back, crossing her arms before her lips curled into a mischievous smirk. “You know… you just gave me the incentive I needed to fill that douchebag’s computer with enough viruses to make it cry.”

You nearly choked on your drink, barely managing to cover your mouth as you laughed.

Charlie worked in the tech department and she was the company’s most valuable asset. The only one who came close to her level of expertise was Frank, and even he admitted she was the best. You’d met her in your second month on the job when she’d swooped in to fix a software issue you’d been struggling with. Not only had she solved it in minutes, but she’d also taken the time to teach you a few tricks that you still used to this day.

The two of you had hit it off immediately. She was a giant nerd at heart—quirky, sarcastic, and fiercely loyal. You’d bonded over your shared love of Harry Potter, both agreeing that Hermione was the real reason Harry even survived half his adventures.

“You know…” you smirked, eyes glinting with amusement. “I wouldn’t hate to see that.”

Charlie grinned, wiggling her fingers as if casting a spell. “Then consider it done.”

The two of you burst into laughter, the weight of your morning stress lifting—at least for now.

After lunch, you and Charlie made your way back to the office, the brisk winter air nipping at your cheeks and turning the tip of your nose red. The cold was sharp, but in a way, it was refreshing—like it was clearing out the mental fog that had settled in after your morning of spreadsheets and stress.

As you neared the building, Charlie shoved her hands into her coat pockets. “You coming to the company Christmas party tomorrow night?”

You blinked, nearly having forgotten about the annual bash Roman Enterprises threw right before everyone was released for their so-called ‘Christmas break.’

“Shit, I completely forgot about that,” you admitted, your breath visible in the air. Your mind had been preoccupied with... well, other things.

“Well, I’m only going if you are. I can only tolerate these people when I’m getting paid for it.”

You laughed at that, shaking your head. “I mean, I guess it’d be the decent thing to show our faces, right?” You shrugged, considering it. “And I do have to admit—Dick throws a damn good party.”

“Right? And there’s always a chocolate fountain,” Charlie said, eyes lighting up.

You hummed in agreement. “Fuck it. Let’s go. I can grab a new dress on my way home later.”

Charlie grinned, clearly pleased. “Oh! You should invite Dean. It’s been a while since I saw that knucklehead.”

That made you hesitate.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to invite Dean, but an office Christmas party wasn’t exactly a casual setting. And inviting him made it feel a little too much like... a date.

But then again, Charlie would be there. It wasn’t like it would just be the two of you. Three friends hanging out. Totally normal.

“Sure,” you said after a beat, forcing nonchalance into your voice. “I’ll ask him. Though he’s not a suit-and-tie kinda guy.” You chuckled, already picturing his disgruntled expression. Getting Dean to wear anything remotely formal had always been a battle.

Charlie smirked. “Tell him there’s an open bar. I’m sure he’ll be persuaded.”

You huffed a small laugh, shaking your head as you pulled open the office door. “Yeah... you might be onto something there.”

By the time you left the office, the sky had deepened into rich blues and purples, the last traces of daylight fading behind the city skyline. You made your way down to 9th Street, stopping in a few stores to find something to wear for the company Christmas party. Dick Roman always hosted black-tie events, and currently, your wardrobe leaned more toward casual attire, jeans, hoodies, sweatpants—not exactly gala material.

Luckily, it didn’t take long to find the dress. A deep red gown with delicate lace accents, an open back that dipped daringly low, and just enough side-boob to make going braless the only option. It was definitely more revealing than what you’d normally go for, but for some reason the thought of Dean seeing you in it, gave you enough incentive to buy it.

Once you got home, you decided it was finally time you got stuck into the gift wrapping. You slipped into your loungewear and set up in the living room, surrounded by wrapping paper, ribbons, and bows.

Wrapping gifts had always been something you enjoyed—it wasn’t a chore but a ritual. You loved making each present look as perfect as possible, picturing the happiness on your loved ones' faces when they unwrapped them.

Dean’s gift was the last one left of the night, and it was by far the most meaningful.

You had managed to track down an original pressing of Led Zeppelin II—the very album he’d lost as a kid in the house fire. It had been bad, nearly costing Mary her life, the electrical damage so severe that renovations had taken years. They had lost so much—family photos, keepsakes, and among them, the vinyl his dad had given him on his 10th birthday.

You could still remember the hours you spent in his room, the two of you lying on his bed, singing along to Ramble On, always a little off-key but never caring. Finding another copy had been next to impossible, but last month, Charlie had tracked one down in a tiny record store just outside of town. You had almost kissed her for it.

Now, as you carefully folded the wrapping paper around the record and tied a bow on top, you smiled to yourself. You hoped he liked it.

Just as you finished up, your phone buzzed. Dean. You ignored the flutter in your chest at the sight of his name and flipped open the screen.

“’Sup?”

“Why did I agree to this again?” Came Dean’s gruff voice.

“Because you’re a massive pushover?” you deadpanned.

“Do you know I’m currently parked out on a dirt road? No motels. Havin’ to rough it tonight.”

You bit your lip, picturing him scowling at his surroundings.

“I still don’t feel sorry for you.” You chuckled, and he let out a dramatic sigh.

“’Course you wouldn’t.”

You smiled into the receiver, adjusting the phone against your ear as you stacked the last wrapped gift onto the pile.

“You do realise Sam has a license and could’ve driven himself home, right?”

Dean groaned. “Yeah, but I kinda only got him some shaving foam and a razor for Christmas.”

Your mouth dropped. “WHAT?! That’s all you got him?” You screeched into the receiver. “No wonder you took, like, five minutes to shop. I thought they were your toiletries, not presents!”

“Yeah, well, now he’s got a road trip with his big bro to add to it.”

“You’re a nightmare,” you scoffed, shaking your head with an amused twitch of your lips despite yourself.

The line fell silent for a beat, the comfortable kind, before you remembered your conversation with Charlie.

“I, uh, had lunch with Charlie today,” you said.

“Yeah? How is the nerd?” he teased, though there was clear fondness in his tone.

“She’s good. She’s also plotting to destroy Gary’s computer with viruses.”

Dean let out a bark of laughter. “Brilliant.”

“She also reminded me about the company Christmas party tomorrow night.”

“Oh yeah? You goin’?”

You hesitated, trying to sound casual. “We agreed to go if the other did… but she also asked if you wanted to come.”

There was a pause. “Really?” Dean hummed. “Do you want me to go?”

Your heart thudded in your chest.

“I mean, I know they’re not really your thing. It’s a black-tie event, super formal,” you said quickly, then mentally facepalmed. Were you trying to talk him out of it?

“Sounds pretty terrible,” he agreed, and you panicked.

“There’s an open bar, though.”

Silence. Your stomach twisted uncomfortably.

“Hmm. Now that does change things,” he mused. “I can come if you want me to?”

Your face flushed at the unintentional pun—although, knowing Dean, it was probably very intentional.

“More the merrier, right?” You shrugged it off, with a lame chuckle, wanting to smack yourself in the head.

Dean chuckled. “Yeah, that’s true.”

Another comfortable pause settled between you.

“I’ll, uh, let you get some rest,” you said, softer this time. “Don’t want you falling asleep at the wheel.”

“Yeah, probably best.” He sighed, and you could almost picture him, all scrunched up in the backseat.

“Goodnight, Dean.”

“’Night, sweetheart.”

The next day, you busied yourself tidying up around the apartment. You didn’t want Dean thinking you were completely incapable of living alone, so you straightened up, wiped down the counters, and even tested out a few cake recipes for Christmas.

After a few failed attempts, you finally landed on a winner—a pecan upside-down cake. It was soft, sweet, and had just the right crunch from the pecans. For a first try, it wasn’t bad. And that was exactly what Dean walked into a few hours later, when he finally arrived.

“Whoa. What the hell smells so good?”

You turned at the sound of his voice, smiling, and for a second, Dean forgot how to breathe. It had only been a little over twenty-four hours since he’d last seen you, and somehow, he’d missed you way more than he was willing to admit.

“Hey. I was just trying out some recipes for Christmas. Think I found a winner.” You cut a slice of cake and slid it onto a plate before handing it to him.

He eyed it suspiciously, glancing between you and the dessert. “You made this?”

You scoffed, your hands settling on your hips in a defensive stance. “Why is that so hard to believe?”

Dean smirked at your reaction. He lived to rile you up. Still, he picked up the slice and took a big bite. The second the flavours hit his tongue, his eyes fluttered shut, and he let out a deep, satisfied moan.

“Shit, that’s good.”

You swallowed hard.

“Really?” you asked, voice a little breathier than you intended.

His eyes snapped open. “You kiddin’ me? I think I just found my new favourite dessert.”

Your face warmed. That was high praise coming from him. Dessert was practically Dean’s second language—specifically, the pie dialect—so for him to say that about your cake. That was a damn honour.

“Well, that’s that then. Dessert is sorted.” You dog-eared the page in the recipe book you’d picked up while dress shopping, mentally noting to make this again for Christmas.

Dean took a seat at the island as he finished his slice of cake, the two of you making idle chit chat about his trip, and how much LA traffic sucked, when you got onto the topic of Sam and his new lady friend.

“So, Is he punching?” You asked rather bluntly, a teasing smirk on your lips as you gathered everything coated in cake batter and dumped it into the sink.

“Oh, massively. She’s way out of my brother’s league.” Dean laughed, the sound rich and amused, and you raised a brow.

“Sounds like you’re just as smitten,” you mused, a little sharper than you’d intended. What the hell is wrong with you?

You turned your back to him to cover your idiocy, arms buried in warm, soapy water as you busied yourself scrubbing utensils clean.

It was just an innocent comment. It wasn’t like you cared if Dean thought some girl was attractive. You weren’t overthinking, not at all. Not about how easy it would be for him to fall for someone else, someone uncomplicated, someone not you.

Jesus, girl!

You were broken from your spiralling thoughts when you felt him behind you. His presence was unmistakable heat radiating off of him in waves, his scent a lingering mix of soap, leather, and the faded remnants of his cologne. It made your head swim.

A dish clinked gently as he slipped his plate into the water beside you.

“Do I detect some jealousy in that tone of yours?” His voice was low, teasing, the warmth of it curling down your spine.

“Pfft, you’re joking, right?” You scoffed, but the slight crack in your voice gave you away.

Dean heard it too. You didn’t need to see his face to know he was smirking. The self-satisfaction practically rolled off him.

You placed the last item on the drying rack and turned, only to find him closer than expected. Your breath hitched.

“No. I’m deadly serious.”

Your pulse pounded in your ears as his eyes locked onto yours, heavy-lidded and unreadable. The space between you shrank, an invisible force pulling you toward him. Like gravity, like inevitability.

Dean leaned in; his breath warm as it fanned across your lips. His hands braced against the counter on either side of you, caging you in. The heat between you was palpable, something crackling in the air, something that made your knees weak and your thoughts scatter.

Then—

His ringtone shattered the moment.

You jolted slightly, the haze lifting as quickly as it had settled. Dean sighed, raking a hand through his hair as he pulled his phone from his pocket. One glance at the screen and his expression soured.

“What?” he answered gruffly.

You took that as your cue to leave, slipping away down the hall and into your bedroom, pressing the door shut behind you.

You needed a breather. Badly.

What the hell was that?

He can’t be home for more than five minutes before you want to jump his bones.

And, seriously, “Sounds like you’re smitten?” What were you thinking?

You groaned, rubbing your hands over your face before shaking yourself out of your stupor. A shower. A cold one, preferably. Then you could focus on getting ready for tonight—because the last thing you needed was to be a flustered mess at a party where you were supposed to look put together.

The irony.

By the time you stepped out of the shower, steam curling into the air, Dean had left again. Apparently, Sam had forgotten one of Jess’s bags, the one containing all of her clothes for the next couple of days, in Dean’s trunk, so he had to drive back to his parents’ house to drop It off.

That allowed you to take your time getting ready, without being rushed for ‘hogging’ the bathroom.

You pampered yourself—lotions, perfumes, careful grooming (not at all for a certain green-eyed man). You took your time with your hair and makeup, allowing the slow, methodical routine to settle your nerves.

You’d just finished curling your hair when Dean returned.

Still in your robe, you stepped out of your room to grab a drink, only to nearly collide with him in the hallway.

“Oof.”

Dean caught you, steadying you before you could fully crash into him. Your hands landed briefly against his chest, warm and firm beneath your palms.

He chuckled, the sound low and easy, but then his gaze flickered over you, taking in your appearance.

A slow smirk spread across his lips. “You know, when you said black tie, I didn’t realise you meant the robe kind.”

You glanced down at yourself—silk black robe, tied securely at the waist—and realised what he meant.

Unimpressed, you looked back up at him. “Wow. You’re freakin’ hilarious.”

Dean barked out a full-bodied laugh, clearly pleased with himself as you brushed past him toward the fridge, shaking your head. You twisted off the cap of a beer and took a sip.

“Any more jokes like that out of you tonight, and you can stay home,” you warned, levelling him with a serious stare.

Dean only grinned wider but raised a hand in surrender. “Don’t worry, I’ll be well-behaved.”

But the dark glint in his eye told a different story.

He left you there and headed for the shower, while you worked to calm the nerves still rattling in your chest.

Tonight was going to be… complicated.

Questions would be asked.

Is Dean your date? Are you two together?

And you’d have to say no.

Which meant leaving him wide open for the kill.

The women in HR were like sharks in bloodied water—desperate, predatory, and not the least bit subtle. They’d be all over him tonight. And you weren’t sure if you were equipped to handle seeing it. Because those were exactly the kind of women Dean would bed. And you were basically serving him up on a silver platter.

Lord, give me strength.

By the time the clock neared 7 p.m., you were dressed and ready.

You stood in front of the mirror, taking in your reflection. You had to admit—you looked good. Hot, even.

The dress hugged every curves perfectly, the wide-open back revealing the delicate slope of your spine before stopping just above the curve of your ass. A bold red lip completed the look, matching the rich fabric of your gown. Your hair was swept up in a loose bun, soft curls framing your face.

Satisfied, you stepped out into the living room—only to stop short at the sight of Dean.

He was already dressed, waiting, phone in hand.

And he looked—

God.

A black suit, fitted just right, a crisp white dress shirt beneath. The same suit he’d worn for his parents’ anniversary dinner last year. It had looked good on him then. It looked even better now.

The broad set of his shoulders, the slim taper of his waist—it was unfair how well he filled it out. His hair was neatly gelled, but not too much. Just enough to keep that natural, tousled look in place. And he smelled… incredible.

He must’ve sensed your presence, because he looked up from his phone, and had to do a double take.

Holy. Mother of God.

Dean couldn’t breathe. It was as if you’d knocked the wind right out of his lungs just by existing in that dress.

You were stunning.

And that word didn’t even come close to doing you justice.

His gaze dragged over you, drinking in every detail. The way the dress clung to you, the deep red fabric a striking contrast against your skin. The soft glow of the light catching on the shade of your eyes, making them look brighter somehow. The way your lips—painted that same rich shade of red—parted slightly as you waited for him to say something.

Jesus.

He wanted to say something smooth, something that would make you smile, make you roll your eyes at him the way you always did when he teased you. But his mouth had gone dry, and his brain wasn’t quite catching up.

Dean cleared his throat, forcing his voice to work.

“You…” He exhaled, shaking his head slightly, his lips twitching up at the corners. “Damn.”

Your brows lifted in amusement. “That bad, huh?”

Dean huffed out a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not even close.” His eyes met yours, more serious now. “You look incredible.”

Your breath hitched. He meant it—there was no teasing lilt in his voice, no smug grin. Just honesty, plain and simple.

You swallowed, feeling warmth rise in your cheeks. “Thanks,” you murmured. “You clean up pretty good yourself.”

Dean smirked, but it softened almost immediately. His gaze lingered, his expression shifting into something unreadable.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The air between you felt different—thicker, heavier. There was something unspoken in the way he looked at you, in the way his fingers twitched at his side like he was stopping himself from reaching out.

For a brief second, you let yourself sink into it. Let yourself feel the weight of his attention, the warmth in his eyes.

But then, just as quickly, you snapped yourself out of it.

“Alright,” you said, exhaling sharply and breaking eye contact. “We should get going before we’re late.”

Dean blinked, like he was shaking off a daze. “Right.” He cleared his throat and followed you to the door, as you grabbed your coat.

Dean opened the door for you, placing a hand at the small of your back as he guided you out. The heat of his touch lingering long after.

AN: I just want to bang their heads together! but at the same time, where would be the fun in that!? 😂 I hope you noticed I gave y'all a little break from all the spice in this chapter, but fear not, these too can never stay separated long 👀

(Also, if anyone reading this works in HR, it was just an idea I went with, I don't mean to offend or think HR is like that 😅)

If you would like to be tagged in my future works please respond to this >form< so I can add you to the character's you'd like 😊

Dean Winchester/series Tag List:

@bettystonewell @nancymcl @happyfxckinghorrors @ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter @tbgfvfdcb @crooked-haven @chevroletdean @paganvamp @stoneyggirl2 @deans-baby-momma @spnaquakindgdom @ladykitana90 @lyarr24 @impala67rollingthroughtown @jackles010378 @riteofpassage77 @spnaquakindgdom @fangirlingfromdownunder @cevansbaby-dove @star-yawnznn @piptoost @shadysoulangel @deansimpalababy @megara0224 @hobby27 @idontwannabehere7 @maddie0101 @kr804573 @mrs-nesmith @zepskies @ohheyguyss @suckitands33 @ultimatecin73 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @arcannaa @aylacavebear @bobbdylann @waynes-multiverse @jaredpadonlyyyy @impala67stellawinchester @bonbonnie88 @youroldfashioned

Next Time...

Your fingers tightened around your glass as you watched her laugh at something he said—too exaggerated, in your opinion. He wasn’t that funny. And then, as if things couldn’t get worse, her manicured hand squeezed his bicep. That was the last straw. Charlie had abandoned you to use the restroom, leaving you with no distractions other than to sit and watch Dean practically fall in love with another woman right in front of you. Okay, maybe you were being dramatic. But he looked interested, smitten even, and it made your stomach churn. Deciding you’d tortured yourself enough, you pushed to your feet and manoeuvred through the crowd toward the bar. More alcohol seemed like the only logical solution. Except, before you got there, you walked straight into someone solid.

55 notes · View notes

dingo-ate-my-hot-lettuce-crazy · 2 days ago

Text

YAY YAY YAY !!! so happg youve enjoyed 🫶🏻🖤

busted

author's note: I've been doing really well lately, idk why my mind is filled with angst. the POV is so messy ngl because you see "your" thoughts but there's also a major focus on deans inner turmoil and observations...not my best work but I had to spill it out. I may come back to revisit it later but just wanted to preface that LOL also this is inspired by my bot!

summary: a call from the Greensboro Sherriff's Office causes your heart to stop dead in the middle of your apartment. you bring dean back into reality, as he takes in your reaction to his choices.

pairings: dean x reader

characters: dean (20 years old), reader (anywhere from 18 and up)

word count: 6.1K

warnings: cursing, slight injury (a bruise and a cut), John Winchester hate, HELLA angst, not exactly proof read good luck

-+-+-+-

NOVEMBER 14, 1999

sluggishly jabbing the key into the handle, you open the door to your studio apartment. you drag your feet in, missing the sight of your place, as it feels like you haven't been here for days- when in reality, it was only fourteen hours because of the double shift that you took.

throwing anything in your hands on the counter- keys, purse, leftover food- you make your way into the bedroom to change into loungewear instead of your work clothes. you couldn't focus on anything else until you stripped yourself of anything from work. an oversized grey shirt that reaches down to your upper thigh is accompanied by your black yoga shorts and fuzzy leopard print slippers. you couldn't bring yourself to care. all you want to do is eat and pass out, because you know you're up again tomorrow to open.

you didn't mind your work at all. there was a consistency about it that was rather soothing to you since hunting was anything but consistent. you only went on hunts every couple of months, since it was hard to take off more than a couple of days at a time.

once you sluggishly make your way back in the kitchen to grab your leftovers, a buzzing starts to sound from your bag. you rummage through it trying to find your pinging cell phone that seems to have been buried in a mountain of credit cards, mascara bottles, and god knows what else you've tossed in there.

upon finally snatching it, you hurriedly flip it open before it goes to voicemail and accept the call, with an drowsy, "hello?"

the line is still for a moment, before you hear, “is this," your full name is said across the line, an older woman with a gratingly, unenthusiastic tone.

you stand up straighter. the unsteady beat of your heart was the only thing you could focus on for a moment or two, thumping in your chest with unease. a bad feelings swells in your chest. you aren't sure who you would've given your number to recently. you don't give it out at all unless it's to close friends or family. your mind goes to the worst case scenarios. a hospital calling to tell you that someone is gravely injured.

or dead.

you swallow, a moment before you shakily respond. "uh, who's asking?"

the droning woman continues with an exasperated sigh. "you have a collect call from Greensboro Sheriff’s Department, do you accept the charges?”

perplexity racks your brain for about a second before you close your eyelids with a knowing sigh.

dean.

you try to keep the contents in your stomach down from the rush of nerves. you swear your legs feel like they're about to give out from underneath. you brace your hand on the counter, leaning into it. “yes,” you manage.

a click in the line signals that the operator is connecting the call, as it rings twice before a hoarse voice speaks your name. it is exactly who you figured.

“dean? what the hell's going on?” the panic slips out from your throat as you attempt to keep a level volume.

a waery sigh travels to your ears, and he sounds a lot less assured and cocky than he normally does. he comes across with a softer mumbling, a tone you haven't heard before.

"can you pick me up?”

he sounds tired. embarrassed almost. it didn't help tame your irregular heart rate.

you shake your head with worried incredulity even though he can't see you, "from greensboro? where's that- north carolina?"

"yes."

your eyes squeeze shut, trying to maintain a regular breathing pattern. it was all wrong. you wanted to be angry, and yell and scream and curse at him but this call, his defeated voice, and curt answers... it's not like this was on purpose, you remind yourself. he just makes bad decisions sometimes.

though, this is one probably takes the cake.

you blink your eyes open, a dreadful huff escaping, "god- it'll be a couple of hours before i get there." you glance to your wall clock hanging next to the kitchen cabinets. 10:44PM. you estimate you won't get there until 1:30 in the morning. god damn this.

"no, that's fine- it's...i'm sorry," dean barely raises his voice above a whisper. his strained, resigned voice breathes across the line as he continues, "i didn't know who else to call."

oddly enough, you're genuinely thankful. given that dean was more of an 'i'll do it myself' guy, you are relieved to know that he called you instead of allowing himself to spend a night or two in jail. sure, this is a major problem to deal with, he's in a fucking holding cell at the sheriff's office right now, and you're hours away from having to drive to bail him out.

but he did call for you.

the anger isn't quite faded, but it's pushed to the back of your mind, as you grip the phone a bit tighter, your voice getting stronger again, "just- it's okay. i'm glad you called me. i'm on my way, just- god, don't get into any more trouble while you're there." you're already halfway out the door with a map in your hand as you scold him over the phone.

"i won't, i won't." he ensures tightly, before quietly adding "drive safe, sweetheart."

you utter a quick bye as you hang up, heading to your car parked outside the apartment building.

you can't say that you weren't aware of what you were signing up for when you started dating him. you knew exactly what you were getting into. and it was hard. he's not always around, and when he does show up, more often than not he's battered and bruised. although you take pride in the fact that he shows up to you when he can. it's hard to get close to him, so you take anything you can get when it comes to helping him. and when he is around...you forget how to act. he is unlike anyone you've ever met. he's got this wicked charm and sense of humor that you adore. he is selfless to a fault, putting everyone before himself. he cares deeply for those around him, even though it's not always in plain sight. he's surprisingly romantic- though some times you do have to remind him of what boyfriends do. being one of his first "long-term" girlfriends means that he's doing a lot of learning. and he does learn, you admit, and he makes you happy.

so you keep replaying these thoughts in your head as you curse his name on the three hour drive to Greensboro.

-+-+-+-

only when you park at the sheriff's department is when you realize you never changed. you were still in your lounge clothes from earlier. a funny thing to make note of, but your thoughts were so scattered right now from the evening's events that you couldn't care to linger on the topic.

you walk through the front doors to an eerie and dim-lit waiting room. one officer behind a guarded cubicle shifts his glance to you. you slowly walk up to the desk, trying to hide your uncertainty, seeming as you've never picked up anyone from a holding cell before. you speak up, "uhh- evening...i'm here to bail out dean. he was brought in today..." you left out his last name, hoping that they hadn't got his legal name and that maybe he was using a coverup.

the officer, a balding guy in his mid-forties (if you had to guess), clicks his tongue as he files through a comically large binder, skimming through until he reaches the page with dean's information. "yup. we got 'im. take this. fill it out. he's processed already, so we just need a check and some info and we'll send him on his way."

he hands you a clipboard with a couple of pages of paper and a pen, asking for some of your identification and background. you flash him with a quick, forced smile as you take it over to one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs in the lobby.

you stand up and hand it back to the officer from the slit in the plastic guard. you notice a badge on his chest that reads "WADE", as he just stares at the chunky computer that his eyes seem to be glued to. you clear your throat, offering the clipboard and papers in further, along with a check for $300.

dean better be damn lucky i have a savings...

"fantastic," although, the enthusiasm obviously didn't reach to his expression as he printed out a receipt, on an obnoxiously loud printer. he slides it through slit and exasperatedly groans as he stands from his seat. once the officer grabs keys from the desk, he shuffles over to the hallway with a pressed, "cyom'on."

you follow behind him with an awkward silence. the only noises to be heard were the echoes of his boots booming with each step, and his occasional throat-clearing. he swings the key ring around his finger with soft, metal clinking and slows down at one of the locked doors.

this room is full of other desks occupied by a small handful of other police officers at their stations filling out paperwork. one or two glance up to you, but it's short-lived.

"wait here and i'll grab 'im," he holds out his palm, signaling for you to stop behind him, as he disappeared through another set of doors.

you are for sure angry with dean, but the way the cop said "grab 'im" makes the protective bones in your body activate. it sounded too aggressive, even though you knew dean could be quite the handful.

he was your handful, and you have to remember that. when you answered the phone call, you assumed the worst, which was that he was dead. and he's not, thankfully. you just have to remember that this night could have been much worse.

you take in a long inhale, sitting on the edge of one of the chairs. you lean your head in your hands, the exhaustion taking you out by the minute. and it didn't help that you're out there for another fifteen minutes before you hear the same door open with a second pair of footsteps. you stand up immediately and exhale in relief, and all negative feelings are spared for the moment when you watch dean trudge in front of the officer with a fresh, red-pigmented bruise forming on his left cheek with a small cut paired at the center of impact. his eyes look glossed over from probable sleep deprivation, as his strides are more lethargic than you're used to seeing.

"this the guy you want?" he points lazily, double-checking as he looks at you unimpressed.

you usher yourself over to them, confirming with a sharp, "yep."

although despite your tone and your blank face, you couldn't help but instinctually reach out to dean and bring him in for a firm embrace.

he obviously wasn't expecting it, as he grunts from your grip on him, and he raises a surprised brow but puts his right arm around you as he swallows down his own emotions. his gravelly assurance reaches your ears, "i'm fine."

you pull away with a disbelieving scowl, reaching a hand up to the side of his face and turning it so you can see the little souvenir he received from this experience.

"what's this." you deadpan, laced with a bit of a challenging bite to it.

dean sets his jaw as you hold it in place, avoiding your gaze as he grates out a dismissive, "nothin'."

you let go of him, shaking your head. your expression morphing into a controlled irritation and worry.

"son," officer wade impatiently calls from the desk a couple of feet away. he slides a paper towards the edge of his desk with the tips of his fingers, "fill this out for us while i git the rest of your belongin's and such."

dean lets out a quick huff of air, as he turns to the cop leaving their vicinity, "yes sir, officer krupke." he mumbles under his breath, which in turn gets him a backhand on his arm from you. he whips his head to you with shocking amount of surprise, as you eye him with a stern look that said "you better fucking watch yourself". dean rubs his arm slightly and widens his eyes briefly before sitting down at the chair across from the desk, writing on the bail acknowledgement sheet.

after a little while, dean turns his head to you, darting his tongue out to wet his lips before he hesitantly asks, "hey, uh...did they give you an amount for bail?"

you take a deep breath in, grinding your teeth as you avoid his gaze before you numbly answer, "it was $300, dean."

he gulps. his eyebrows flash up in shock and be blinks a couple times, and gives you another glance, "damn. thanks for covering me."

"just fill out the paper." there wasn't any attitude behind it. just clear exhaustion.

he looks at you funny, like he didn't expect you to be this terse. he takes a breath, and huffs a bit of it out, bringing the pen to the designated lines.

after about ten minutes of silence, officer wade drops off a plastic bag of personal items of dean's with a sharpie label on it. he drops it on the desk unceremoniously, bringing dean's attention to him.

"if that's all done, you can git." he points to the doors leading out, "but i don't wanna see you back in here or we'll have problems. y'understand?"

you let out a chide scoff directed at dean, answering for him, "trust me. he won't be back here. thank you, officer wade."

he dips his head in acknowledgement. dean scuffs the chair backwards as he eyes the cop, and he stands up slowly and with a slight threat in his look still.

you hurriedly walk down the hallways of the sheriff's department, not even looking back to dean.

now...

now is when the anger starts to simmer a bit.

you're a couple of feet ahead of dean as you push the door open with more force than necessary, but you figure it might be better than taking it out on dean after he just was released from the cell.

and you can't tell if he knows you're upset- or if he knows and he doesn't want to pay attention to the fact.

"listen, i'll pay you back every penny of that bail, alright?" dean catches up to your strides quickly as you basically dart to your parked car.

you bite your cheek, an unresponsive scowl still on your face after dean's amendment to the situation.

the uncomfortable silence is something that dean wasn't used to between you guys. "it was absolute torture in there. i didn't think what i did was that bad. but then they started playing the BeeGees on the radio in there-"

you stop halfway to the car, and dean almost smacks into your back. you shake your head with disbelief, your lips twitching with aggravation. yet your tone is scarily even and low as you glance to him, "how fucking dare you make jokes right now. after i just drove three hours to get you at one a.m. after my fourteen-hour shift. from jail."

and that did it. he got quiet real quick. you almost feel bad, because his face immediately falls, and he resembled a kicked puppy, even with all the effort in the world to hold up his "everything's peachy" facade. he can barely scoff, unknowing of what to say at all.

you open your mouth to say something else, but it dies off, and all you do is turn around and head back to the car. once you stick the key into the handle of the driver's seat, you unlock it for dean as you both sink into your seats. closing the door where all the negative energy is contained, and stuffy, and hard to vent out.

"where's your car, dean."

he tucks his head down slightly, carefully glancing to you for a moment before he mumbles like a kid, "it's not with me. dad has it with sammy, a couple of states away."

that piques your concern, and you brave it and look to him as you ask, "w-where are you staying then?"

dean nods in a general direction in front of them, "just at a motel near downtown."

john left his eldest son, who is still only twenty, in a shitty part of town with no car, to stay at a dingy motel by himself.

you wish you could say you were surprised.

you sigh, disappointedly. "where..." you begin to buckle your seatbelt, and put the key into the ignition.

the car roars to life, and dean answers flatly, "it's called Morrison's Motel, on Holbrook, Street or somethin'."

you place your right hand on the back of the passenger seat, leaning on it so you could angle yourself backwards while backing out of the parking spot. once you're able to get back into drive and onto the main road, you announce to dean, "you're gonna grab your stuff and come back with me."

his eyebrows furrow with intense confusion, "what?"

"you're grabbing your stuff," you break apart the words with a bit of an edge leaving no room for argument, "then you're coming back to my apartment."

he stares at you in disbelief for a bit. he doesn't argue, but he's unsure if he wants to.

on one hand it was you. you're his everything. and you always took care of him. when he's come by your apartment after hunts, you feed him, heal him, make love to him, talk to him- whatever he needs.

on the other hand... it was you. and you are royally pissed.

he despises the fact that he feels like a child right now. he knows the game you're playing right now, and he loathes it. it doesn't exactly "work" for him. this intense, condemning attitude where you think you know what's good for him. what's better for him. he's heard talks of similar nature and he's dismissed them, because it get's nowhere. his stubborn ass hardly gives thought to what's better for himself. his brain chemistry is practically permanently altered to do what's best for anyone else but himself.

and you were damn determined that you would change that.

not today, and not tomorrow. but you needed that to happen for him.

he sinks into the seat, marinating in his own irritation at the fact that he practically has to deal with this situation. it definitely won't be any better to avoid it. he knows better than to try and get away with anything from you. nor does he want you to resent him.

he knows he fucked up.

once you park outside of his motel, you unlock the door from inside the car. you wordlessly allow him to get out, and collect his duffel and whatever else he had been left with. he checks out of the motel, and he joins you back in the car, closing the door with a slightly irked slam.

you don't pay attention to it, taking off the highway. back home.

-+-+-+-

the silence stretched for the entire three-hour ride. so much so that you didn't even notice that dean fell asleep against the door. you turn and pull the key out of the ignition once your in front of your apartment building, just staring at him for a moment.

he looks exhausted. his eyes had darker bags around them, and he didn't even look comfortable the way his neck is positioned. you were sure going to jail for a night was enough to wear you down from stress alone. he came off aloof when you picked him up, sure, but you know dean. you know that he's not really going to show you everything he's really feeling. you can only imagine how he's been since his dad just abandoned him at the motel.

he doesn't really do well with being alone, you've noticed.

and curse your empathy because the pit in your stomach had settled a bit, and you've calmed down some. you reach a hand out too his bicep. his arms were somehow crossed in his sleep. you barely touch him, and he inhales deeply before jolting slightly against the seat.

"easy," you tell him, not as gentle as you normally would but still you try to disarm him. "c'mon. let's go."

he blinks himself awake, clearly struggling to come back to the present. he jerks his head to the passenger door that you've opened, with a little impatience, and he lets out a tired huff as he climbs out.

once you reach your front door, it opens to the living space dean remembered it to be. he really liked your place. it was simple, and small, for sure, but you didn't require a lot of space. the occasional decoration scatters on the walls and tables throughout, adding a touch of home to your space. dean usually feels at home here.

but for once, he wasn't exactly sure what to do with himself.

he hovers by the door, and you've already taken off to drop your keys and purse on the kitchen counter. you don't yet look him in the eyes.

"come here, please."

he clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, expecting a lecture or something. he rests his hands on his arms again, keeping his demeanor closed-off, while he watches you shed your things in the kitchen. and he's dumbstruck again by you.

"do you need an icepack?" you offer.

he swallows, almost forgetting about his bruised cheek, "i'm fine."

you turn yourself to face him, matching his stance with no real emotion displaying on your face, "when's the last time you ate?"

he scoffs defensively this time, lifting his shoulders tensely, "I don't know...today- or yesterday or whatever." he didn't actually eat more than a gas station pizza slice that day.

you note his attitude but neglect it, walking over to the fridge, moving around a couple of loose bottles and containers. you stand on the top of your toes to reach to the back of the top shelf, grabbing a container of macaroni and cheese you had made the other night, along with left-over rotisserie chicken. it wasn't exactly a home-cooked meal, but it's mostly better than what dean normally has.

you pull apart the chicken and silently start putting it on a plate that you grabbed from one of the cabinets, and scoop out some of the mac and cheese on there as well. you throw it in the microwave for a minute, leaning against the counter with your hip with no other words.

dean forfeits his indirect protest at your mother-henning and sits at your miniature table-for-two in the corner of the kitchen. he slumps, resting his back on the wall while he's in the chair, and his legs splay outward, ninety degrees away from the table as he keeps his gaze to the floor. or wall. or anything besides you, really.

the microwave dings and you bring the plate over to him with a fork stuffed underneath the food. you ungraciously drop it in front of him, letting the ceramic plate smack the table a bit. dean casts a quick glance to you before staring straight ahead, not wanting to acknowledge the food in front of him. because if he did, that would entail that he was hungry, like any other human being. that he can starve and that he had been since his dad left.

but it smells fucking good.

he takes a breath, relenting as he grabs a fork and mumbles a quick "thanks". he stirs it around for a couple of moments before taking massive bites at a time.

and you knew he was hungry. you know he doesn't take care of himself on the road. that's why you loved when he would stop by in between hunts. you were comforted by the fact that he ate something more than a a bag of chips and a granola bar when he would stop by.

you don't say anything, as you put away the containers of food and clean up the kitchen some. by the time you're done, you lean against the refrigerator with your eyes on dean.

you couldn't let go of this. you know you won't be able to sleep regardless of tonight, but at least you'll have answers.

"you wanna tell me what happened?" you start, and there's no bite in your tone. it's a simple question.

and with that in mind, dean's response really set you off.

he pauses on his last couple of bites of food, and shakes his head with a short-tempered snort, "you signed the bail papers, didn't you? i'm sure it said why."

your blood boils and your unable to keep the poker face you've been maintaining. you stalk closer to dean, kicking yourself off the fridge. "you know what dean, i did sign the papers for you, so i don't understand why you're the one who's got attitude here. you know what else I did? i paid. for. your. bail. that was three-hundred fucking dollars, dean. do you think i'm made of cash-"

dean brings himself forward and sets his forearms down on the table, causing the ceramic plate to clink at his motion as his voice rises with defense. he looks you dead in the eyes as he reiterates, "i said i'm gonna pay you back. i intend to keep my word on that."

"that doesn't fix the situation, dean!" you retort as your voice starts to seethe with emotion, "you got arrested. i drove three hours after a fourteen hour shift to pick you up, so you don't get to be angry with me."

"i'm sorry, okay?" he snaps loudly, standing up briskly causing the chair to scuff backwards against the floor. "getting arrested wasn't exactly on my agenda for today either."

"you think that makes this more acceptable? because you didn't mean to get arrested?"

he shrugs his shoulders with a hardened expression on his face, "what do you want me to say?

you scowl harshly, like it was obvious. "i want a goddamn explanation! getting arrested doesn't happen on your typical Tuesday, dean."

"i'm a hunter," he says your name with pronounced snark, "there's no such thing as 'typical' for us!"

"were you on a hunt?"

your question stuns him for a second. "I- well," he stumbles, at a loss for words, "not exactly, but-"

"no." your voice is low and dangerous, "you weren't on a hunt. disorderly conduct and false identification were the charges. so this has jack shit to do with hunting." you take a couple of steps closer to him, pointing to him with a thundered glare, "you were at a bar, using a fake ID, illegally drinking and fighting. that is a whole other level of reckless for you, dean."

he matches your intensity and gets closer to you so that you are only about two feet apart. "i wasn't drinking recreationally- i was blending in while hustling pool money! they didn't like that I won, so they tried to start something. they did, not me. there's the whole explanation- are you happy now?"

your voice falters at his spat as you tremble with emotion, face morphing more into distress than anger, "no! no, i'm not happy. do i look happy?"

dean huffs, and he doesn't respond at first. his face neutralizes slightly before he breaks eye contact with you and rubs a hands down his face as he paces away from where he stood.

"jesus christ, look-" he turns back to you with a controlled, firm expression, "they let me off with just a fine. i don't even have to go to fucking court so i don't get why are you turning this into such a big deal-"

"do you know how worried I was when I picked up the phone to hear from the police station?"

the sentence resounds against the walls of your apartment. and dean freezes, the only thing moving is his chest which rises up and down from the overload of his frustrations. for a moment, you could hear the honks and revs in traffic, the buzzing hum of the air conditioning, and the whir of the electronics and appliances around you with how quiet it became.

"a shiver ran down my fucking spine, dean. i felt like my heart stopped. i was damn near shaking when they called. i didn't know i-if they were calling to say they found your body, or if you were hurt, dean. i was scared- i was so fucking scared. why- why, why, why can't you see that I'm worried about you? i don't want to sit here and berate you for your choices, because yes, this was a fuck-up but i know you know better and i know that you're beating yourself up for it too." for a brief second, you wonder to yourself why dean's face had dramatically gentled into a look of pained concern, and you didn't realize up until that moment that you had streams of tears down your face.

then you notice that your breath hitches, and the lump in your throat weakens your speech. "i don't want to sit here and lecture, and yell- i just don't want to feel that again-" your words get cut off in a sobbing squeak.

"okay, okay," dean croons and suddenly his arms are wrapped around you, and your face is buried into his chest. your breath heaves as you try to reign back control on your body, and you want to be angry at dean, but his hands hold onto you so tight and he brings his mouth to the crown of your head, and one of his hands to your hair. he mumbles a couple of apologies, his own voice getting caught as he watches you crumble into him.

"i'm sorry- hey, i'm sorry. i-" you can feel him shake his head above you as he rubs your upper arm and shoulder, "i should've realized- i didn't know you were that worried. i-" dean curses to himself as he feels you shake in his grasp, and he rubs your arm with affection. "sweetheart, i'm so sorry. i never wanted you to worry like that..."

your hands fist the back of his shirt as you try to hide your face into him, your voice slightly muffled, "i'm not bothered worrying about you- but when it's shit like this-"

"no- sweetheart, i- yeah. i get it, i do. it was stupid, okay? it won't happen again." his guilt-laced promise almost breaks its way through to you.

you pull yourself off of dean as he reluctantly lets go of you, not quite looking into his eyes as you bring a hand to wipe your face. you look down, sniffling as you hoarsely choked out, "damn straight it won't."

dean's shoulder's sag, as the events of tonight seem to finally wash over him, as he sees the tolls that it took on you. his hands find his way to your shoulders again, and he tilts his head to try and find your gaze. "thank you. for picking me up, and feeding me, and-and worrying, and driving all that way to pick up my dumb-ass. you shouldn't've had to."

you sniff, bringing your head up but avoid his gaze still. "it's fine."

"no, it's not...and i knew it wasn't and i fought you on it anyways. I just..." dean sighs as he unwillingly admits, "money's tight. dad didn't leave me much when he took off, so i was just trying to make some extra cash. it's just stress- and i didn't mean to get angry with you. i'm not angry with you..."

you look to him then, your face vulnerable and open, "why didn't you ask me for help?"

he scoffs definitively, "i'm not taking your money."

"it costed you an extra $300 to not ask for my help in the first place, dean. i would've rather given it to you then have you borrow it from me in this case." you remind him, and he thinks it over. regret and shame written all over his face.

"you want me to forgive you?"

dean blinks at you, his brows furrowing in confusion quickly before answering, "yeah- i do."

"the next time you find yourself like this- hell, when you need help at all- you call me. and i can't say that i'll always be able to but i will do my damndest to try." you assert sincerely.

he bites his lip, obviously not entirely wanting to admit to needing your help. but for you, he's willing to do anything to keep you pleased.

"alright. i will." his eyebrows slightly lower, serious with his promise to you.

"good," you nod, feeling better about the situation. not all better, but it was baby steps. you bring a hand to his elbow, giving it a gentle squeeze as you utter, "it's late. you should get to bed. you could use the rest."

"yeah." he replies in a whisper, "you too."

you gesture to the bedroom with the cock of your head as he follows behind you like a puppy. you bring your hands to your face, trying wipe away any emotion that remained from the fight. you walk to the adjourning bathroom as you wearily mention to dean, "i need to wash my face, go ahead and change if you need to."

"okay," he replies softly. it's that same quiet tone your not used to.

as you rinse your face from the stress of the evening, you let the cold water cleanse you, allowing yourself to focus on the frigid, november water. it washes over you, and you feel yourself grow sluggish as your mind becomes quieter with every breath you take, and your heart beat slows for the first time in the night.

you pat your face dry with a towel hanging on your wall, and walk out as your met with dean on the bed with the lamp on next to him. he's changed into his sweatpants that he's left here before, along with a plain black t-shirt. his back rests against the headboard as his knees are drawn up. his hands ruffle through his hair before bringing the heel of his palms to rub circles against his forehead. he smooths his hair out quickly as he notices your appearance again, and immediately lays his feet down on the bed, and waits to see if you'll join him.

you shuffle over to your side of the bed, getting under the covers.

"you can turn off the lamp now." you say after adjusting, your voice barely above a whisper.

"right," he reaches over to click the lamp off, and scoots further down so that his head is resting on a pillow.

the silence eats away at you both, before dean speaks up first, "are you still angry?"

you inhale deeply, moving onto your side so that you're facing dean. you lean down and find his lips through the moonlight shining through the room. and of course, he reciprocates the kiss with a bit of surprise.

"yes," you preface, before continuing with a gentle gaze, "but i forgive you, and i still care about you. and even though i'm mad, i'd rather have you next to me then not at all."

dean blinks a couple times, nodding a bit before one side of his lips twitches upwards. this time, it's his turn to kiss you, as he pushes onto his elbow, to meet your lips with his, taking his time. when he lays back down, he lovingly studies your face, "thank you."

"you don't have to thank me for that. i'll care about you always...get some sleep, baby." your hand finds his forearm closest to you, as you give it a soft rub.

dean watches you through the dark as you settle back into the bed. but he doesn't close his eyes yet. after a couple of minutes, he feels you shift, and you sit up and grab his farthest hand, and take it with you as you lie back down, dragging his arm over yours.

his lips quirk into a smile, the first real one of the night, and moves to hold you against him.

now... now he closes his eyes.

51 notes · View notes

dingo-ate-my-hot-lettuce-crazy · 2 days ago

Text

OOH....

im feelings things very much with big big feelings in my feelings areas..

brb my feelings are pulsing

The Hiatus Beard

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: Dean grows a beard during your much needed R&R, and it does things to you.

Word Count: 1.6k

Warnings: SMUT!(18+ONLY), swearing, Dean's beard 😍

AN: I thought I'd release a little something before the first part of my series: The Arrangement, this Friday. Scruffy Dean/Jensen is just 🤌🏻 and does things to me. So enjoy this little one shot that got away from me 🫣

Masterlist

For as long as you’d known Dean, he’d always been a minimalist.

Whether that was with his cut-and-dry humour, his “kill first, ask questions later” attitude on a case, or his appearance. The way he dressed—a simple jeans and t-shirt combo with a flannel thrown over. And then there was his hair, short, neat, a quick run-through with some gel, and he was done.

And it had always been the same with his face. Clean-shaven, jaw sharp, lips unobscured. He had a routine. No scruff, no fuzz, just Dean as he always had been. Until now.

The moment the world stopped burning for a minute, when the fight against Michael had finally ended, Dean had agreed to take a break.

A real break.

You and him up at Rufus’s cabin, away from the bunker, away from the weight of saving everyone. Sam had all but shoved you both out the door, telling Dean to let himself breathe for once.

And maybe that was what made it happen. Because, for the first time in forever, Dean let go. He let himself sleep in. He let himself do nothing. He even let himself grow a beard.

It had started as stubble, nothing unusual, just a sign of taking a day off from shaving. But then a day turned into a week, and the neat, smooth skin you’d grown used to gave way to something rougher, wilder. A thick layer of golden-brown scruff covered his jaw, making him look different.

It shouldn’t have been that big of a deal. It was just facial hair. And yet…

You couldn’t stop staring at him.

Dean with a beard did something to you, something primal, something that made heat coil low in your stomach every time you looked at him.

Maybe it was the contrast, the way it softened him but somehow made him look rougher all at once. Maybe it was how it made him look even more like the hunter he was, like the kind of man who could haul you over his shoulder and take what he wanted. Maybe it was because it was just so damn new.

And then there was the way he felt when he kissed you. The scratch of his beard against your lips, the roughness dragging along your skin in a way that made your breath stutter. Every kiss was different now, leaving a burn that lingered, that reminded you hours later that he’d been there. That he’d touched you. And it only made your mind wander further—how would it feel against your throat? Down your stomach? Between your legs?

The thought had haunted you for days, simmering under your skin, making it harder and harder to focus on anything else.

Whatever it was, it had you in a chokehold.

It didn’t help that Dean seemed utterly oblivious to it. He wasn’t doing it to be sexy. If anything, it was the opposite. The man had taken to walking around the cabin in old sweats and a stretched-out Led Zeppelin t-shirt, scratching at his beard like he was still getting used to it, completely unaware of what it was doing to you.

Until he noticed.

It was one night after dinner, sitting by the fire, both of you with beers in hand. Dean leaned back, stretching, and his eyes caught yours. You must have been staring—again—because his lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk.

“Alright, what gives?” His voice was low, rougher with the rasp of relaxation. “You’ve been looking at me weird for days.”

You blinked, feeling heat crawl up your neck. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Dean chuckled, setting his beer down. “Oh, sweetheart, you definitely do.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw, the sound of fingers over scruff making your stomach tighten. “It’s the beard, isn’t it?”

You swallowed. “Maybe.”

Dean’s smirk deepened. He shifted forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he levelled you with a gaze that made your breath hitch. “You like it?”

You could have played coy. Could have brushed it off, made a joke. But screw it. You were tired of pretending.

“Yeah,” you admitted, voice quieter than you meant it to be. “I do.”

Dean’s eyes darkened just a bit, his smirk flickering into something else. Something hotter. “That so?”

You nodded, fingers tightening around your beer bottle. “Yeah.”

Dean didn’t say anything for a second, just let the weight of the moment settle. Then, slowly, he leaned in, eyes locked onto yours.

“What have you been thinking about?”

Dean’s voice was a low murmur, rough and coaxing, but there was something dangerous curled beneath it—something that sent a shiver racing down your spine. His gaze was locked onto you, sharp and unrelenting, like he was already inside your head, already picking apart every filthy thought you’d had about him.

Your breath hitched. You could lie. You could change the subject. But what was the point? He’d see through it. He always did.

Your tongue darted out to wet your lips, pulse hammering like a war drum in your chest. “I’ve been wondering how it would feel.”

Dean’s brows lifted slightly, intrigue flickering through the storm in his eyes. “Where?”

Your stomach clenched, heat pooling low, so heavy it made your thighs press together involuntarily. “Between my legs.”

Everything in the room shifted—thickened. The air became stifling, charged, the space between you crackling with something untamed.

For a beat, he didn’t move. He just stared, breathing slow and deep, jaw clenched tight like he was barely restraining himself. And then—

He snapped.

In an instant, Dean was on you.

His mouth crashed against yours, rough and claiming, his beard scraping deliciously against your soft skin. His kiss was brutal, messy, all tongue and teeth, like he couldn’t get enough, like he needed to taste you, to consume you.

His hands gripped at you, dragging you against him, pressing your body into the hard lines of his own. You could feel him—all of him—thick and aching beneath his jeans, grinding against the heat of your core.

A whimper spilled from your lips, and that sound—it did something to him. A guttural groan tore from his chest as he wrenched his mouth from yours, only to drag it along your jaw, your neck, his teeth scraping, his scruff burning against your skin in a way that made you tremble.

“You wanna feel it, sweetheart?” His voice was a rasp, breath hot against your throat as he nipped at your pulse, making you gasp. “Then let me give you exactly what you’ve been thinking about.”

Before you could respond, he was hauling you up into his arms like you weighed nothing, moving with purpose, raw determination burning in his gaze as he carried you to the bedroom.

Dean didn’t waste time. He laid you out on the bed, broad shoulders squared, chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths as his eyes dragged over you—hungry, dark, wild.

And then, with agonising patience, he began undressing you. Deliberately.

He peeled away your top first, taking his time, letting his fingers linger on newly exposed skin before his mouth followed. Every inch of you was tasted, kissed, sucked—his beard scraping, the contrast of soft lips and rough scruff making your body writhe beneath him. He worked his way down, his mouth hot and open over your ribs, your stomach, the curve of your hips.

By the time he reached your jeans, you were a trembling mess, already lightheaded from the way he touched you, the way he took his time like he was savouring you.

But when he finally stripped you bare, something in him snapped again.

His hands slid up your legs, fingers pressing into your skin with a bruising grip, parting you for him. His breath hitched as he took you in, eyes darkening to something animalistic, something primal.

“Jesus.” His voice was low, almost reverent, but there was nothing holy in the way he looked at you.

Then he was moving, surging forward, his mouth hot and wet as he kissed up your legs—starting at your ankle, his beard scraping along your sensitive skin, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs digging in as he worked his way higher, pressing kisses, nipping at soft flesh, until—

He reached where you needed him most.

The first swipe of his tongue was slow, deliberate—a tease—but the effect was devastating. Your back arched, a breathless moan escaping you, and that sound shattered what little control he had left.

Dean growled, deep and low, the vibration sending a shockwave of pleasure through you. Then he dived in.

There was nothing gentle about it. He devoured you.

His tongue was relentless, flicking, curling, pressing deep as his scruff burned against the delicate skin of your thighs. The rough drag of his beard was intoxicating, every pass sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. He gripped your hips hard, holding you in place, refusing to let you squirm away from the onslaught of sensation.

When your thighs clenched around his head, he groaned, the sound filthy, desperate. “Fuck, baby—give me that.” His voice was a growl, muffled against your slick heat, and then he buried himself deeper, sucking your clit into his mouth, his beard scraping in the best, most deliciously punishing way.

You shattered.

Your orgasm crashed through you, white-hot and endless, and he didn’t stop—not when you cried out, not when your fingers yanked at his hair, not when your body shook from overstimulation. He just held you tighter, kept licking, sucking, fucking you with his tongue, dragging it out until you were wrecked beneath him.

Only when you were trembling, spent, did he finally pull back, his lips glistening, his breath ragged as he gazed down at you—his work of art.

And you knew, with just that look, he was nowhere near to being done with you.

AN: I hope you guys enjoyed this one.❤️ And I can't be the only one, who's thought about this, am I right? 👀😂

If you would like to be tagged in my future works please respond to this >form< so I can add you to the character's you'd like 😊

Dean Winchester Tag List: @bettystonewell , @nancymcl , @happyfxckinghorrors , @ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter @tbgfvfdcb @lyarr24 , @impala67rollingthroughtown @jackles010378 @riteofpassage77 @stoneyggirl2 @deans-baby-momma @spnaquakindgdom

258 notes · View notes