Chapter Text
You never really had a home. You spent your life moving, never letting yourself stop—because if you stopped, you had to think. And you hated thinking. You hated the silence, hated hearing your own mind spiral. Hunting was easier. You could kill almost anything without a second thought. Fear didn’t touch you—except when it came to facing yourself.
You should be glad. You just helped stop a world-ending threat. You could finally rest. At least, that’s what Sam kept insisting. He was always the optimistic one, always seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. Meanwhile you couldn’t even see yourself getting out of the tunnel. The thought of rest made you feel unsteady.
Still, you kept your mouth shut. Sam and Dean deserved this win. You wouldn’t ruin it.
When you all made it back to the bunker, you said your goodnights and split off to your rooms. Everyone was exhausted—physically. You were just tired in every possible way.
You meant to take a quick shower, but your body went into autopilot. You stayed under the water far too long, trying to scrub away the feelings that clung to you. No matter how hard you washed, they stayed etched into you like they had been carved in.
It was past midnight when you finally gave up and went to bed. You tossed and turned, but comfort never came. Eventually you climbed out of bed, needing something—anything—to occupy your mind.
Cleaning seemed like the safest distraction.
You all had been so busy that no one had time to take care of the bunker. So you spent hours scrubbing, organizing, wiping down every surface you could find. By the time you finally finished, it was three in the morning.
You collapsed into a library chair, letting yourself breathe.
“You know,” a familiar voice drawled, “most people sleep at this hour. Not clean the bunker like it personally offended ’em.”
Dean limped toward you, still in the same clothes from earlier. Bruises, cuts, scrapes—he wore them like they were nothing. He handed you a water bottle and took the seat across from you, popping open his beer with a soft hiss.
“Says the man who is decidedly not sleeping,” you replied.
Dean shrugged, taking a sip. “My spidey senses were tingling. Heard someone practically begging for my company. Being the gentleman I am—” he spread his arms dramatically—“here I am. You’re welcome.”
“Oh, yeah. I was just desperate for you to rescue me from my tragic, tragic solitude.”
“Mm.” He winked. “I inspire desperation. It’s a gift.”
You rolled your eyes, but your chest warmed the way it always did around him. This was your routine—the late-night dance. Neither of you slept well. Somehow you always ended up finding each other in the dark hours, talking until exhaustion dragged you both under. Sam had found you two passed out in the library more than once. He never commented. He understood.
Talking with Dean quieted the noise in your head. Even when it was stupid stuff. Especially when it was stupid stuff. He was the only peace you ever really had. And ironically, nothing about Dean Winchester should have been peaceful.
Sometimes you ached to tell him what was really wrong. To tell him that some nights you wished you could disappear, or that you hated yourself for reasons you couldn’t even articulate. But Dean was your peace—and you were terrified that if he knew the truth, he’d take that peace with him and walk away.
He fought his own demons. You saw them every day in the tension in his shoulders, in the way he slept like he was waiting for a fight. You recognized the loneliness in him because it mirrored your own. But you never spoke about it. Neither of you dared to put words to the quiet thing between you.
“Hey,” he said suddenly, voice soft in a way he didn’t use with many people. “You okay?”
“I’m as okay as you,” you said. Meaning: Not at all.
Dean snorted. “Then we’re screwed.”
He glanced around at the spotless room. “Need help cleaning?”
“Now you offer?”
“What? I just got here.” He grinned, beer bottle hanging loosely from his fingers.
“I literally saw you peeking in two hours ago.”
Dean froze mid-sip, then smirked. “Well. In my defense… I was gonna help if you looked like you were dying. You didn’t.”
“You were waiting for me to finish.”
“I was supervising.”
“That’s such a man thing to do.”
“The past is irrelevant,” he said, waving a hand. “I’m here now. Ready to heroically assist.”
“You’re my hero,” you teased. “Truly. I don’t know how I’d live without you.”
“You wouldn’t,” he said simply, with just enough seriousness to make your breath catch before he smirked again.
“What were you doing for the last two hours, anyway?”
“Admiring you.”
“Right.”
“One day you’ll believe me.”
“Maybe if you didn’t sound sarcastic saying it.”
He pressed a hand to his chest. “I’m wounded. And here I thought we had something special.”
“You’re dramatic, Winchester. You should’ve been an actor.”
“Yeah, well, too busy saving people. Or, you know—” he leaned forward slightly “—saving you.”
“…Right.”
He grinned, but his eyes… his eyes told the truth you always tried to ignore.
He took another sip, and the façade slipped. Just a bit. Enough for you to see the exhaustion weighing on him, the pain he tried to drown under jokes and bravado.
You reached across the table before you could stop yourself, cupping his face gently.
Dean went still.
He sucked in a breath, and for a moment, the whole bunker felt like it was holding its breath with him. His green eyes locked on yours. Your thumb brushed a bruise and his eyes fluttered shut briefly, like your touch was something he hadn’t had in a long time.
His gaze dropped to your lips.
Your heart stuttered.
He leaned in—just so slightly, like a reflex, like breathing—
You tore your eyes away before you let yourself fall into him. Dean didn’t see you like that. He couldn’t. And wanting more was dangerous because if he knew what you really were inside…
He’d leave.
You cleared your throat, scanning his injuries. “I’m getting the first aid kit.”
“I’m fine,” he muttered automatically.
“You’re a mess,” you corrected. “Sit still.”
“You don’t have to worry about me.”
“You’re right,” you said quietly. “I don’t. But I do anyway.”
He froze at that, like he didn’t know what to do with the truth of it.
You walked away before he could respond.
When you came back, you pulled a chair right in front of him—so close your knees brushed. Dean stiffened, then relaxed, like he couldn’t decide how to handle the proximity. You could smell whiskey on his breath, musk on his skin. You cleaned his wounds carefully, brushing hair from his forehead, tilting his jaw just right.
Dean watched you like you were something he wasn’t sure he deserved.
“I, uh…” he started, voice rough. “Just wanted to say… thanks.”
“For what?”
He held your gaze like the words were stuck somewhere deep in him. You touched his cheek lightly.
“Dean,” you said, “you don’t have to thank me. As long as you let me be here, I will be.”
His throat bobbed. He nodded once.
You finished bandaging him, and when you reached for your supplies, he caught your hand.
“Look,” he said quietly, “I suck at the emotional crap. But… I’m here for you too, okay? You take care of me. I want—I need—you to know I’ve got you. Always.”
The sincerity in his voice nearly broke you.
“Careful, Dean Winchester,” you whispered. “I might start to think I mean something to you.”
His eyes lingered on your face, far too long for it to be casual, before he smirked. “We wouldn’t want that now, would we?”
He still hadn’t let go of your hand.
You squeezed his fingers gently. “Goodnight, Dean. Try to get some sleep. And shower. Please. You smell awful.”
He laughed, warm and genuine. “Goodnight, sweetheart. Try not to miss me too much.” He gave your hand one last lingering squeeze before releasing it.
You both walked separate ways down the hall.
But Dean Winchester was still all over your mind.