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Dean finds you under the covers, curled up in a ball of misery. No longer actively crying; just weeping. Your arms wrap around your chest in a futile bid to close the hole of grief that has opened there.
With your head buried under the comforter you don’t hear him come in the room, or softly call your name. You start when he pulls the comforter back, the air cool against your skin. You hear him call you this time, but it’s too hard to answer. Fresh tears track down your cheeks and you huddle that bit closer into yourself.
The comforter drops for a moment as Dean moves around behind you before he slides into the bed beside you. His weight shifts for a few seconds before strong arms are reaching out to pull you close. You allow yourself to be manhandled briefly as he turns you to face him before tucking you in against his chest.
One of his arms rests under your neck, his forearm spanning across your back, palm splayed against your lower back, keeping you tucked into him. The other hand rests on the back of your neck, fingers curled into your hair and gently massaging. He drapes a leg over both of yours, entangling you both together as closely as he can.
You press your face into his shoulder, feeling the soft Henley under your cheek. Dean smells like mint shampoo and spicy masculine body wash. The scent mixes with your laundry detergent and the subtle notes of leather that Dean never manages to wash away. Combined it smells like home. Like safety and comfort and love.
The thought of home existing now a piece of it is missing causes you to sob. Dean’s arms tighten a fraction more, pulling you into him so closely it’s almost painful, before releasing you. Dean moves his chest backwards so he can look at your face.
“Shh. It’s okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you.” His voice is barely above a whisper, rough but full of love. He tilts up your chin so you’re looking at him. “Oh, babygirl. I know it hurts.”
He sweeps his thumb under one eye, wiping away your tears before using the backs of his fingers to do the other side. His efforts only last a minute or so before fresh tears are re-wetting the skin. He wipes them away again before pressing a kiss to your forehead. You hiccup a little and bury your face back into Dean’s shoulder.
Your hands are caught between your chest and Dean’s and you turn them to press your palms into his skin. Dean feels solid, strong muscle covered by soft skin. He’s the bedrock beneath you, never moving. Just lending you his strength and support until you can stand again. You know you will stand again; this pain is proof of your love and you will grow around it, with time.
Just for the moment though, you’re happy to let Dean hold you, carry you, support you while you regroup. He brushes your hair back from your face and tugs your ponytail free so he can run his fingers through the length of your hair. You close your eyes as a fresh wave of hurt runs through you, chest shuddering through the sobs.
“It’s okay babygirl. Let it out. I’m here. I’ve got you.” Dean rests his cheek on the top of your head, fingers still combing through your hair. More sobs. “Let it all out, I’ve got you. It’s gonna be okay.”