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theconstantsidekick · 7 months ago

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Lit Cigarettes (Part 2)

Pairings: Dean Winchester x Reader, Sam Winchester x BestFriend!Reader, Damon Salvatore x Stefan Salvatore x Sister!Reader (these are the main ones, there are too many others to tag) Genre: Fluffy angst

Summary: While Sam berates Dean for his choice of very pathetic reply, Y/n tells her brothers about said pathetic reply.

(Set after the events of Supernatural season 4 and yes, Y/n's dated a bunch of TVD characters.)

a/n: The two conversations are happening parallel-y, hope that makes sense?

Warnings: Smoking, mentions of smoking, more romanticisation of smoking, a lot of that yes, sorry. Don't smoke kids. Semi-explicit content? IDK, there's kissing.

Part 1 is here.

It’s only when they’ve crossed the Mystic Falls border does the silence in the Impala break.

“You’re an idiot,” Sam tells him.

The car stops abruptly. “How long have you been awake?” Dean asks, taken completely off guard.

“Long enough to call you an idiot,” Sam answers before he opens the door to the back seat, exiting the vehicle. Dean takes a second to realize that Sam’s making the walk towards the passenger seat.

Dean pokes his head out of the window just to be petulant and screams, “THAT WAS A PRIVATE CONVERSATION, you sneaky son of a bitch!”

Rolling his eyes, Sam opens the passenger seat door and gets inside., “You really think I didn’t know about it?.”

“Know about what?” Dean asks as the dumbest dumb person to ever exist as he starts the car back up again.

Sam looks towards him, and his eyes are louder than any words can ever be. His eyes are screaming at him, calling him the dumbest guy to have ever walked the earth. But then he says, “She’s been in love with you for 15 years, and I’ve been her best friend for 14 of them. You really think I’d need to eavesdrop on your conversation to figure it out?”

Dean opens his mouth to say something but thinks better of it and instead asks, “14?” He’s facing the road now, too embarrassed to face his brother.

“The first year was rough, we got off on the wrong foot,” Sam explains. “I think I was mostly just pissed at her for fawning over you like you hung the moon. Not the point. The point is, I don’t need to overhear a conversation to know that she loves you. Everyone and their mother knows that she’s in love with you.”

Dean stays silent for a second, because he doesn’t know what to say. What the fuck is he supposed to say to that? He… He doesn’t know what to say to that.

“It was still rude, bitch,” Dean says lamely, because like he said, he doesn’t know what the fuck else to say.

Sam just laughs, without any humor but all the passive aggression in the world. “What was rude was saying—”

“He’ll pick you up on tuesday!?” Damon yells, mouth agape, hands covered in flour and sugar.

“And what did you say to that?!” Stefan asks from where he sits on the kitchen counter, watching his brother and his adopted sister try (and fail) baking a cake for his birthday.

“I said I’ll see him Tuesday,” Y/n answers with a magnificent amount of shame. She can see both her brothers are about to launch into an all out assault of questions, but she is categorically not in the mood. She cuts them off before they can even start. “He didn’t really give me a chance to say anything else, he just got in the car and drove off, okay?”

“Honestly, I don’t even think I can blame him,” Damon retorts, urging a cocked eyebrow from the other two Salvatores. “I blame you,” he says pointing his goop drenched whisk at her. “It’s your fault for falling in love with a NSYC reject.”

She just rolls her eyes and goes back to cleaning up the mess Damon’s creating at every step of his cake making process. “Do you really think you should be saying that? When you look like you could enter a Gerard Way Look-Alike Contest and win?”

While Damon makes the most absurd voices known to mankind (and vampire kind), Stefan just lets out a soft chuckle. “Okay, okay,” Stefan tries to calm them down. “Let’s just go over the events of the night again, shall we?”

“Can we please not?” She pleads.

Stefan carries on unfettered. “So you told Dean Winchester, the man of your dreams that you love him and he said he’ll see you Tuesday?”

She exhales audibly, “Yes… more or less. Yes. That’s how it went.”

“The fucker doesn’t deserve an announcement of love, if you ask me,” Damon counters, hands back at work, mixing the goopy and frankly probably unsalvagable cake mixture.

“That’s probably why no one asked you!” She throws back, throwing away the paper towel in the dustbin. “AAH! I just needed to say it, okay? Fifteen years is a very fucking long time to keep something like this to yourself. I needed him to know.”

“But you’d told him already, didn’t you?” Stefan counters. “Before he got dragged to hell?” She flinches at the mention of the incident—the memories are far from pleasant—but nods in agreement. “What did he say back then?”

“I know,” she tells them.

“You know what?” Damon asks, face souring at the sludge in his hands. Then he sneakily (not sneakily at all) grabs a bottle of Bourbon and empties almost half of it into the cake batter, mixing in the liquid.

“No, he said that,” she replies.

“Said what?” Stefan questions.

“He said, ‘I know’!”

A look passes between Stefan and Damon and then Damon does the honors, “If nothing else, you gotta hand it to that Timberlake-wannabe, he’s got a great track record of having the shittiest responses to someone professing their love to him.”

“What the fuck else was I supposed to say?! I was about to be dragged to Hell!” Dean defends. “It’s not like I had the ability to focus on anything else.” He’s a fucking liar—his focus was definitely not on being dragged to hell when she said what she did. But Sam doesn’t have to know that.

“Anything, man! Literally anything else!” Sam countered, frustration evident in every single inch of his movement. And it’s always times like these, when Dean begins to think if Sam would side with him if he were to actually have a fight with her. Would Sam keep hunting with him if she decided to part way? “You are such a fucking dick!” Sam remarks. So no, probably not. He’d pick her over his brother for sure.

Dean can’t help but cower a bit at the strength of Sam’s annoyance. “I wasn’t trying to be,” he tries. “I just thought… when in doubt, Han Solo that shit, you know?”

And that apparently is the worst thing to say. “What is wrong with you, Dean? You know, you really are Dad’s son! ‘Cause my God. There’s only one other man who is so incapable of handling their emotions, and somehow, you’re even worse than him.”

Dean doesn’t appreciate the insult to their father but he lets it slide on account of Sam being really fucking angry. “Fine! If you’re so great at this chick-flick shit then tell me what should I say to her. You tell me and I’ll say it to her on Tuesday?”

“Tues—seriously?!” Sam’s veins are about to pop out, Dean thinks. The man is so fucking angry with Dean right now that he’s genuinely worried that he;s about to bust the vein on his temple.

“What?” Dean throws back, cause actually he has no other fucking response.

“You know, I don’t even get what she sees in you. She’s crazy smart, and talented and funny. She’s so freakin’ funny!” Sam says, and Dean has to agree with all that. She really is. “There’s so many amazing people who’re just dying to get even one shot with her, and yet, she’s stuck on you!”

Dean’s jaw clenches. “Then why doesn’t she go after one of those amazing people?”

“I don’t have a single clue,” Sam answers.

“What do you mean? She did give it a shot with one of them, didn’t she? Derek What's His Face?” Hale. Derek Hale. Dean knows his name by heart.

“Derek Hale. Yeah, Derek was pretty great,” Sam agrees, leaning back on his seat.

“Then what happened?” Dean is trying not to sound too curious about it. And if his grip tightens on the wheel, enough for his knuckles to go white, no one has to know about it.

“I’m not sure. I thought it was going great with him but she broke it off with him when we were at Stanford,” Sam tells him, eyes out on the barren road, looking so puzzled, you’d think he was talking about the mysterious phenomenon of raining toads.

“When she dragged you to Stanford,” Dean corrects him, because as much as he'd like to know, the topic is so not his favorite. Neither is this one but it’s… It’s older and the wounds have since healed, become scars.

At his words, Sam’s confusion is gone in an instant. He sits up straighter—as straight as a giant can in a ‘67 chevy Impala. He turns to Dean with something like defense burning in his eyes. “She didn’t drag me to Stanford, Dean!”

“Yeah, right,” Dean brushes it off. “You and I both know, that’s some horseshit. She went there and you wanted to follow her, like you always did.”

“No. Dean,” Sam calls his name in a way that urges him to turn. Once he does, Sam continues, “I didn’t follow her to Stanford. I—I didn’t go to Stanford for her, she went to Stanford for me!”

“What?”

“Dude, she was the valedictorian. She got into 20 different Pre-Med programs, and at least 12 of them were better than Stanford. She just went there cause she knew I wanted to go,” Sam word hit Dean like a tonne of bricks. “And well,” Sam turns back to look at the road again. “She also kinda went there for you.”

“For me?” The fuck is that supposed to mean?

Sam sighs before he says, “She thought that maybe if she were there it would be easier on you cause you’d know that she was there to look out for me.” He smiles then, a small sweet thing. “She went there for you.” What the actual fucking fuck?

Sam turns to him again, and somehow “Don’t get me wrong, she went there for me, but she went there for you too. Everything she does, she does for you.”

“That is—and I say this with all the love I have ‘cause you’re the only Salvatore left other than that dick over there—that is the most pathetic thing I’ve ever heard,” Damon comments.

She pushes a buttered up cake tin towards him and says, “Must be a genetic trait then, passed down from generations. Seeing as the only other Salvatores I know are still, to this day, hopelessly chasing after a girl who looks exactly like one Katherine Pierce.”

“ELENA IS NOTHING LIKE KATHERINE!” Both her brothers shout out in unison.

She has to smile at that. “Not even the—” she points at her own face as a demonstration.

Both of them just pass her a look filled with ire. She smiles wider.

“At least we have hope,” Damon defends, pouring the ungodly mixture into the cake tin. “What’s your fucking excuse?”

“I don’t have one!” She really doesn’t. “I just—I just feel the way I do, I don’t know what to do about it.”

“Move on!” Damon tells her.

“For once I agree with him,” Stefan says from the counter behind them. His words are softer than Damon’s, they always are. Stefan’s always understood her dilemma just a little bit better than Damon. She thinks it might just be because Stefan understands the feeling of helplessness a little bit better than their brother ever can. “You really should move on.”

“I want to,” she tells him, with all honesty. “I really, really want to. Don’t you think I’ve tried? I tried! With Derek, with Alaric… and it was working. It really was, until he rejected me.”

“Rejected you?” Damon mocks. “I think it was barely 4 months ago that Alaric died in your arms confessing his undying love for you.”

“Damon,” Stefan reprimands.

“What?” Damon counters, clearly annoyed as he turns to look at Stefan. Stefan, however, just shakes his head, telling him in his small gesture to stop it. The wound is still too fresh, don’t touch it yet. And that’s exactly why despite being fond of Damon a little bit more, Stefan will always be her favorite brother.

“I am not ready to touch that topic with a ten-foot pole so I’ll side step that and tell you that I have tried, extremely hard to move on, and if I could do it. I would. It’s not like any of this is fun for me,” she tries to make them understand.

“It’s not as hard as you make it out to be either,” Damon comments and his voice is somehow softer than before because this isn’t a jab. This is more wishful thinking, she thinks. Damon, for all his nonchalance, hates seeing her pining for Dean. Not just because he doesn’t like Dean but also because he’s seen the most of it. He has always been her drinking companion on endless nights. Pouring her one drink after the other, knowing no other way to sooth the pain on her features. He loves her differently than Stefan does. He would’ve killed Dean by now if he thought that could be a legitimate solution. He’s way more violent in his protection of her than anyone else.

Taking the cake tin from Damon, she opens the oven and shoves it in. She sighs audibly before she says, “Look, I have made my distaste for the Elena situation quite clear already—”

“And it’s still fucking unreasonable,” Damon retorts.

“You’re making me agree with him twice on the night before my birthday, now you’re just being rude,” Stefan chides, smiling.

“She pulls you both in opposite directions, which leaves me in the middle where I’m stuck and neglected!” She can see that both the boys are ready to fight her off on the matter all night but she doesn’t want to. “BUT that’s not the point I’m trying to make here. What I am trying to say is that, with Elena, you both feel what you feel. It’s undeniable and inescapable. You could let go of it even if you tried. You both know what it feels like to be hopelessly in love with someone with your entire being.” When both men stay silent, she knows they agree. So she continues, “Can you at least both do me the courtesy to try to understand that that’s how I feel about Dean? That maybe—”

“—She doesn’t know how not to be in love with you, you know?” Sam says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like he isn’t breaking Dean’s world apart in half. “I mean, it’s definitely not easy for her.”

“Watching him flirt with a girl at the bar while I sit in a shady corner, drowning myself in Bourbon,” she says.

“Watching you come back to the motel, covered in hickeys, and sometimes watching you not come back at all,” Sam says with so much pain, Dean thinks maybe he sat with her on those nights. And then it clicks for Dean why he’d see his brother with bags under his eyes in the mornings after.

Her jaw clenches, she fidgets with the “It's always someone else. Either it’s a cheerleader or—”

“—A receptionist at a motel or anything with a pulse at a bar,” Sam says.

“It’s always someone else and it’s never me,” she notes solemnly.

“And it is so fucking painful to watch,” Sam notes.

“It feels like someone’s tearing my heart out and stabbing it in front of me with a fork just to play with it.” She can’t help but smile sadly at the accuracy of that description. “He smiles those smiles that charms the pants off of everyone. And I have to see it, because try as I might, I can never look away. I can never look away from the way he touches them because I can’t help but imagine how it would feel like to be touched like that… touched like that by him. I can never look away when he smiles like that. Which just ends up hurting a little bit more.”

“I’ve had to watch it over and over again for a decade and if it hurts me this much I can’t even imagine how much it hurts her,” Sam tsks so simply. As if he isn’t burning Dean from the inside out.

“I just wish he—”

“Weren’t so loud about it. If you weren’t so loud about it I think it would be easier maybe?” Sam muses. “But then again, maybe it wouldn’t be. Not that she’d ask that of you, she knows it’s not fair to you so she would never ask you to be any other way than you…” And then he sits up again, facing Dean, and Dean has to try his best to keep his poker face intact, “But I can! So, I’ll do it for her—Dean, please can you be just a little less loud about it?” Dean turns to Sam at that and somehow the action is mistaken by Sam as an offended one. “I’m not asking you to change, just… I don’t know, just don’t do it in front of her. Don’t flirt with the cheerleaders while she’s sitting right next to you, you know?”

And man, Dean might be the one whose vein is about to pop now. “What is up with this cheerleader bullshit? She said it too? I wasn’t that fucking back in high-school!”

Sam just sighs in annoyance, “You ignored her Dean.” Dean’s about to protest, but Sam cuts him off. “And I don’t think it was intentional on your part. It was the first time you weren’t an outcast and it was so much fun to fit in, I felt that way too. But she… She was two years ahead of people her age. And that really doesn’t fly well in a small town like Mystic Falls, you know that. I mean, you were in her class, man! You know that the only person who ever talked to her was you but then you got so lost in the high-school of it all that you just ignored her.” Sam shakes his head. “It wasn’t your fault, you were young but it really wasn’t fun to watch either.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Dean defends very very lamely. “I never meant to hurt her, ever.”

“That’s what sucks about all of this. I know he never does any of it to hurt me, but…”

“But it still hurts anyway?” Damon provides, comforting and gentle.

She nods with a sad broken smile as she says, "To be in love—”

“—And to be hurt, is to be made perfect,” Sam quotes.

“Shakespear, As You Like It,” Dean notes, to Sam’s utter surprise. Which, wow! He reads! And besides, it’s… it’s Y/n’s favorite of the Shakespear plays. Of course, he knows what it’s from.

“Sucks that it has to be this way,” Sam notes calmly, now looking out the window at the passing trees. “I know it’s not your fault, I really do. I also know you really care about her. I know that too. But I just wish I didn’t have to watch my best friend be in love with someone who doesn’t love her back.”

Dean’s had enough. He sees red. “WHO THE FUCK SAID THAT?”

“What?” Sam almost balks at Dean’s sudden outburst.

“You and Y/n keep saying that, again and again, and for all that is un-fucking-holy, I can’t fucking figure out who the fuck said that? Who in the name of fuck told you that?”

“Dean—Dude! What are you talking about?” Sam’s eyes are wide and confused.

Goddamn it, Dean thinks. “Who the fuck told you, EITHER OF YOU, that I don’t feel the same way?”

There is silence then.

It stretches on for a minute but it feels like an hour to Dean.

“Are—are you serious?” Sam finally questions.

Dean clenches his jaw. “You don’t think I have better things to lie about than this?” He’s being snarky but he can’t help it. It’s been a long fucking drive.

“Then—” Suddenly Sam’s excitement level shoot the fuck up. “THEN WHAT THE FUCK ARE WE DOING DRIVING AWAY FROM MYSTIC FALLS?”

There are reasons. Dean knows that there are. There was a solid reason why Dean decided to drive away after dropping her off without saying a (meaningful) word. But try as he might, Dean Winchester, cannot for the life of him remember what the fuck it was.

He clicks his tongue, “Good question,” Dean comments before his hand finds the gear shift, and he swerves the car around.

“I am just saying that you cannot ignore it. It’s not a fictional concept. There have been countless tests on the subject matter,” Y/n argues. They’re at the Salvatore Boarding House and the party is in full swing. She’s got a glass of Bourbon in one hand and an unlit cigarette on the other.

“On rats,” Bonnie throws back, smiling.

“Dogs too,” Matt adds from behind her. She smiles at him for the support.

“That doesn’t mean it works on humans,” Tyler cuts in from the couch.

“Of course it does. It’s not a baseless theory. It’s the core facet of every training, ever. You do something good, you’re rewarded, you do something bad, you’re punished,” she explains. “Some people even go as far as to call it parenting.”

Everyone lets out a soft laugh.

“But it doesn’t stick, not always at least,” Caroline counters.

Y/n nods, “Fair enough, it doesn’t. But doesn’t negate the fact that the pavlovian response is quite a real phenomenon. I mean, it’s well known. It’s quite literally used in conversion camps—mind you I do not approve of the abhorrent abuse of it—but that’s what they do. They show you something very straight, that according to their disturbing homophobic beliefs should make you feel aroused and don’t shock you. Then they show you something very gay, that makes you feel aroused and then they shock you. It tells your brain that somehow feeling aroused at this particular thing is dangerous. Then they do it again and again and eventually the entire process just trains your brain to be scared shitless of even thinking of being aroused, because well if you do, you’ll get—”

“Electrocuted,” Elena finishes.

Y/n clicks her finger and points at her. “Doesn’t work though,” she states, as someone plucks the cigarette out of her hand but her point is almost at the end of being made. “Doesn’t stop you from being queer, nothing ever can stop you from being queer.” The cigarette is placed back into her hands. “Queer is who you are, and queer is who you fucking should be.”

She takes a drag.

“Amen.”

Y/n turns instantly at the sound of that voice.

“Dean,” she breathes out.

Dean Winchester and her lit fucking cigarettes.

It’ll be the death of her.

“I thought you had a quota of like 5 cuss words a day,” Dean says with a smirk. Somewhere behind him she can see Sam but her world doesn’t really know how to focus on anyone else when Dean is standing so close to her—barely a couple inches between the two. “I thought you would’ve used them all up… after the conversation in the car.”

“It’s past 12,” she tells him dumbly. She can’t be blamed. WHY IS DEAN BACK HERE? It’s not Tuesday, is it?

There’s a few seconds there, which are just silent. He’s looking at her and she’s looking at him and it’s just silent. Sure, there must be a party in the background but she doesn’t really remember it. His eyes are so beautifully green, she can’t think of anything but The Great Gatsby. She can’t think of anything but the green light at the end of Daisy Buchanan's dock across the bay from Gatsby's mansion. The green light which represented Gatsby's hopes and dreams, particularly his longing for a future with Daisy.

“What are you—” she begins at the same time as he says, “I wanted to—”

Their words get jumbled up.

“You go first,” Dean suggests.

She gulps, quite noticeably apparently because Dean follows the motion of her throat with his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

He smiles then, unabashed and wide. “I should have gone first. Would have saved us time. I was gonna say that I wanted to talk to you…” he answers her question.

“Oh,” is all she can muster.

“Can we do that somewhere… not here?” He nods over to the audience they have gathered.

She wants to look at what he’s motioning towards but she can’t really pull her eyes off of him right now. Instead she just says, “Yes… The courtyard.”

Dean nods and looks at her waiting.

What’s he waiting for?

Until Dean just raises his brows with a soft smile and then she remembers.

“Oh yes, courtyard, let’s go,” she says. And she’s about to grab his arm to drag him off but realizes that both of them are full. She looks from the cigarette to the beer. Thinks for a second—decision made, she downs the beer and places the bottle on the closest flat surface.

“What are you doing here?” She asks again once they’re at the courtyard. They are face to face again, but she has actively decided to put a couple of steps worth of distance between herself and the man of her dreams. For precaution.

“I had to see you,” Dean replies.

“Thought you were gonna see me Tuesday,” she chastises with very little heat, taking a drag of her cigarette.

But apparently Dean takes it to heart. “That—yes! That’s what I am here for. That is the stupidest thing I have ever said. Actually, no scratch that, that’s the second dumbest thing I’ve ever said, ‘I know’ is first.” Confused, she scrunches her forehead. So he explains, “When I was being dragged to hell?”

“Oh,” makes sense, she muses. She shrugs then another puff before she says, “When in doubt, go with Han Solo.”

Dean shakes his head but he’s wearing a smile which she can’t really place. “Yes but it—it was dumb, and I’m sorry.”

“No, no, Dean. No. I am sorry. I put you in a very weird position at a very, very wrong time. It was my fault,” she tells him, and she means it. “Even today, I dropped a whole freakin’ bomb on you without any preamble. Your response made sense considering the condition. I’m sorry to have put you in that position to begin with.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Dean says and his words carry so much determination it makes her shiver.

She waves it off or well, tries to. She has to take a couple steps back, pulling her arms across her chest, she leans on the steps just behind her. She takes a long drag before she asks, “Is that what you were here to do? Say sorry for your response?”

Dean nods. “Yes, and to ask you,” he takes a few steps towards her, “I had to ask you…”

“Ask me?” She urges.

“Did you mean it?”

And she has to roll her eyes at that, drawing on her cigarette again. “What kinda question is that?”

“A serious one,” Dean says evenly.

“Fine, yes. Of course, I meant it.”

“You don’t regret it?” Dean questions.

“What?! No!” The idea seems so silly to her she can’t even come up with a sarcastic remark for it.

“And you still feel that way?” Dean asks, with a hint of… is that fear in his voice? “Do you still…?”

The night is quite forgiving to them. The moon is out but not in full force, otherwise there would be one less party guest and one extra dog in the boarding house. Her birthday party fell on a full moon night, sadly the patent group werewolf, Tyler, had to skip that one.

But tonight’s not a full moon, it’s a crescent moon. Shining quite bright, bathing Dean in its light. That along with the warm yellow of the garden lights makes him look ethereal, she thinks.

“15 years I’ve loved you, you think I’ll be able to get over it in three hours?” She throws back.

“A yes or no would do,” Dean rebukes.

“Yes,” she says, sighing. “I still feel that way… but…”

“But?”

“But I think… I think I’ll try to move on…” she acquiesces, a long inhale of smoke, a shorter exhale of the same.

“Why?” Dean bites.

She pulls back a bit before answering, “I understand that the position I put you in isn’t entirely fair. And well, it isn’t great for me either, is it? It would be better for both of us if I just tried to move on… for good this time.”

“Don’t.”

“What?”

“Don’t move on, damn it!”

And that just pisses her off, she throws the cigarette on the ground, butts it with all her fury. “What? Is this some sort of fucking ego trip for you? Look at the hopeless girl in love with me?”

“2 out of 5 cuss words already used. The day’s barely started and you’re left with only 3,” Dean comments with a smile that makes her want to punch his lights out.

“Quit it!” She yells. “You just making fun of me now? That’s just fucking cruel, Dean.”

“2 left,” Dean states but at her glare he takes another step towards her. “I don’t want you to move on.”

“Why the fuck not?!” She’ll probably punch this guy very soon.

“Cause I don’t want you to.”

“Why not? You just want me to stay madly in love with you, keep watching you chase after girls at bars and keep letting my heart break? You want me to keep dying bit by bit, is that it?” Her voice breaks a little at the end.

“No. Of course not! But if you moved on, it would kill me, so I can’t let you do that, Y/n. I can’t.” Dean tells her.

She doesn’t understand any of this. What even is happening.

“I think you’ve finally lost your mind. Hell has clearly gotten to you. You’ve gone mad! What do you want me to do, keep falling deeper and deeper in love with you, torment myself day in and day out when I know that you will never love me back. What is wrong with you, Dean? What the f—”

“Listen to me,” he cuts her off. “You really need to listen to me cause you’ve got just one cuss word left for the day and what I’m gonna say you might need it for that.” He breathes in, slow and deep. “I never said that.”

“Never said what?”

“I never said that I didn’t love you back.”

She… What?

Wait what?

“What do you mea—?”

He cuts her off again. “I saw you 15 minutes before you saw me.” She’s so confused she thinks she might just cry. And it’s all made worse because Dean takes a few steps closer to her. The gap is nowhere near as secure as it was when this conversation began. “I was getting out of the car and you were…” He smiles, so beautifully that her heart aches. “You were smoking, of all things. At the ripe old age of 13, by the way.”

“My parents had just died like, 6 months ago,” she defends like it matters at all.

Dean smiles all the same. “Smoking your first cigarette. That’s how I saw you, and you were—you were smoking that like a champ, honestly. I think you took four drags, before you decided it was too much and then butt the entire thing. You then began your mission to hide it like they were porno mags under your bed that Stefan and Damon could discover any moment.”

“Porno mags would’ve caused less trouble,” she comments absentmindedly.

He smiles wider then. “Fair enough.” He nods almost to himself. “But yeah. I saw you 15 minutes before you ever saw me. So, I’ve been in love with you 15 minutes longer than your 15 years.”

She doesn’t think she remembers how breathing works.

“I have been in love with you since the moment I saw you. And every single day I wake up and I think I could not love you more but then something happens, you laugh at some joke or you talk about how democracy is a concept built on the idea of inequality, or you sing karaoke at some bar or you just are, you just be and I just… I fall harder in love with you. Every moment I spend with you, is another moment where I find out that I can love you more than I already did.” Dean laughs then. “I was stupid, I was so stupid. I kept thinking that I couldn’t have you. I kept thinking that I shouldn’t even try because what would be the point? I was never gonna quit hunting and this life—it’s filled with so much shit. I thought there was something really bad around the corner, so how could I drag you into that mess with me? So I just—I never thought that I could have you but then I died! I fucking died, Y/n. And now apparently there is a goddamn apocalypse around the corner so clearly bad things will happen no matter what! Then why the fuck should I have to go through all of that alone? Why should I have to go through that without you? I can’t do it. I don’t fucking want to.”

He doesn’t want to.

She’s dreaming, isn’t she?

“I didn’t know, though,” Dean says sheepishly, with apologies all over his face. “I never fucking knew how you felt. Of course I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have—All the girls, all the bars, they were just—I didn’t think I could have you, I didn’t think you’d ever want someone like me so I wanted to numb the pain, I never thought I was hurting you in return. I wouldn’t have—”

She takes a step towards him. They are now standing too close, chest pressed into chest. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” Dean argues, still feeling so guilty that it’s almost painful to watch.

“It’s okay now,” she clarifies. “Do I get to have you now?”

“Obviously! Of course! I’m yours. I’ve always been yours, Y/n. Only yours—”

She cuts him off by pressing her lips on his. It’s a small, tentative thing, mostly to try it out, but also to shut him up. And shut up, he does.

She pulls away, not too far, never too far, just enough to look up at him.

Then Dean Winchester smiles. Wide, and cocky, and flirty and beautiful.

He pulls her back in, hands on caressing her jaw so gently that a part of her thinks maybe she was made of porcelain all along and everyone forgot to inform her. Because he is being so soft with her, his lips on hers are tender but there is so much love in every movement that she can taste it.

Her hands find his hair, and she plays with the soft spikes, pulling him closer, and perhaps it’s her hunger for him or maybe his for her, but tenderness gives way to passion. They are all hands and lips and desperation. He’s grabbing onto her for dear life, pulling her closer and closer as he wants her whole and maybe he does. She understands though, because she’s holding onto his leather jacket like if she lets go he’ll vanish and urging him closer too. It’s mindless and mindful at once.

Lips slotted together seaking out all that they’d been wanting for, for the last 15 years.

Dean’s hand travels down to her thighs and instinctively she knows to jump up. He grabs her easily as she wraps her legs around him. It’s hungry now, they are so very hungry now. It makes her moan, Dean, ever the man of opportunity, takes that moment to slip his tongue in. Their tongues dance together in a heated embrace. She can’t help herself, she’s seeking some release from the tension building inside her, so she grinds against him, only for both of them to pull away, moaning in sickening pleasure.

And she can’t help it, she laughs. “Fuck.”

Dean laughs too. Pressing his forehead to hers. “That’s all of them, sweetheart. You’re out of cuss words for today.”

“That might be a problem considering the state you’re in,” she grinds against him again, to tease him, to feel him, to have him, cause she can now.

Dean groans before smiling again. “Fuck me, sweetheart. I can cuss all I want, you’re the one who’ll be in trouble.”

“Maybe I want that?” She smiles.

Dean laughs again. “God, I love you so fucking much.”

She kisses him again, it’s a sweet, loving little thing. “I love you too, Dean.

Find Part 1 here.