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No, absolutely not.
He glares at the tray of jars, tubes, and bottles you lined up on the nightstand then back at you.
I'm not a painted whore. Fake me was.
“Relax, it's not the same as putting on make-up,” You say as if you just read his goddamn mind. “This is so different. It's just skincare, makes your skin healthy and glowing!”
Dean Winchester isn't exactly the “self-care” type. His idea of skincare was splashing cold water on his face after a hunt and calling it a day. “Demons, ghosts, skinwalkers—I can handle. But cucumber-scented goop? No thanks.”
You sigh, rolling your eyes and stepping between his knees, cupping his stubbly cheeks with your hands. “But, baby… your skin deserves some treatment. You don't even have to lift a finger. Your head in my lap, and relax, okay?”
He tries to ward off the smile threatening to curl his lips. Aren't you a sweet thing? Taking care of your boyfriend. He'd be lying if it didn't appeal to him. He glimpses at the products again, pursing his lips together. He always wonders what kind of stuff you spend an hour putting on your face in the morning when you wake up, and at night before you retire to bed.
Whenever you return to the bunker from a hunt, you take a shower and spend good time on this stuff. Well, one thing he can say is… they smell good. He can tell.
He sighs through his nose, glancing from you to the tray again. "All right, fine. But if I end up smellin’ like a damn fruit salad, you owe me pie."
You grin, leaning down to kiss his forehead. "Deal. Now, lay back, tough guy."
Dean does as told, his head resting in your lap with a grumble. His eyes follow your movements as you unscrew the first jar. "What's that?"
"Cleanser. Gotta get rid of all the dirt, oil, and whatever monster guts you’ve been collecting on your skin."
He smirks. "Sounds sexy when you say it like that."
You roll your eyes but smile as you massage the cool cleanser into his skin. His eyelids droop almost immediately. "See? Not so bad, huh?"
He hums in response, the tension in his jaw easing under your fingertips. You move with gentle precision, running a warm cloth over his face to wipe away the cleanser.
"Okay, next up: toner."
Dean’s eyes crack open. "Sounds like something you’d put in a printer."
"It tightens your pores, smartass." You tap his nose with the cotton pad before swiping it across his skin.
He groans when the cool sensation hits. "Mmm. Feels nice, actually."
"Thought you'd say that."
“Y’know if Sammy walks in and sees this crap on my face, I’m never hearing the end of it.”
“Oh, I’m definitely taking pictures for blackmail.”
As you continue with the serums and moisturizer, Dean gradually slips into that calm, content state he rarely lets himself indulge in. When you reach for the last step—eye cream—he peeks at you again.
"What’s that one for?"
"Dark circles. Gotta keep you looking young and fresh."
"Sweetheart, I hunt monsters for a livin’ minus the money. The only way I’ll look fresh is if you dunk me in holy water and pray for a miracle."
You snort, dabbing the cream around his eyes with your pinky. "Well, you're still the most handsome guy I've ever laid eyes on. Crow's feet and all."
Dean huffs out a laugh. "Flatterer."
Once you’re done, you sit back to admire your work. His face is clean, glowing, and—though he’d never admit it—soft as hell. You lean down, pressing a kiss to his temple.
"All done. How do you feel?"
Dean sits up, rubbing his hands over his face with a thoughtful frown. "Weird… but nice." He stretches his neck and catches his reflection in the motel mirror. His eyes widen slightly. "Damn. Look at me. I got the skin of a freakin’ K-pop star."
You burst into laughter, collapsing against his chest as he pulls you in with a smirk. His lips brush against your ear as he murmurs, "Okay, okay… maybe this skincare thing ain’t so bad. Long as I get the lap pillow every time."
"Every time," you promise, already planning the next session.
And later that night, when you cuddle into his chest and breathe in the faint scent of citrus and cedarwood lingering on his skin, Dean Winchester decides self-care might not be such a pain in the ass after all.
•••
Dean’s sprawled on the couch in the bunker’s library, half-asleep, when Sam walks in with a thick book in hand. Sam pauses mid-step, does a double-take, and slowly lowers the book.
"Dean…what the hell is on your face?"
Dean cracks one eye open. "What’re you talkin’ about?"
Sam points at the faint, greenish tint around Dean’s nose and cheeks. "That. You’ve got...something. Is that a face mask?"
Dean bolts upright and swipes at his face, groaning. "Son of a—she said it was clear!"
From the hallway, you peek around the corner, stifling laughter. "I said it dries clear, babe. It needs, like, five more minutes."
Sam stares at Dean. "You're sitting here…with a face mask…in the middle of the day?"
Dean runs a hand down his face, smearing the clay further. "It's a detox mask, okay? Clears out toxins."
Sam blinks, deadpan. "Right. Detox. From all the…demon goo?"
Dean glares at him. "Laugh it up, Sammy. My skin’s gonna look ten years younger. You’ll still look like you slept in a ditch."
Sam can't even respond. He just whips out his phone and snaps a picture.
"Delete that," Dean growls.
"No chance," Sam says, walking away with a grin.
Dean flops back down with a groan, rubbing his face again.
"Stop touching it!" you scold, walking over with a damp washcloth. "You're ruining my hard work."
Dean mutters something about hunters not needing spa days but obediently lets you wipe his face clean.
And later that evening, when Sam shows Dean the edited photo with the words
"Self-Care Queen" in pink cursive across the bottom, Dean vows to never trust you—or clay masks—again.