Actions

Work Header

Chapter Text

Two months later

Normally you're a big fan of rain and not just because of your hopefully still secret obsession with The Notebook. On this hunt, being vampires of all things, rain is one of the most helpful gifts mother nature can give you.

The steady patter of heavy rainfall covers the sounds of your boots in the mud. The slickness that comes with being soaked to the skin means none of the bloodsuckers can get a real good grip while you fight them back. And above all else, once you're done beheading the lot of them, the rain washes away all your sins, all that blood.

Yes, you normally love the rain. Except for this time. Your wet clothes clinging tightly to you wouldn't normally be a problem, there's just the little matter of that bullet lodged inside you.

It's not exactly in an ideal position for you to perform the normal battleground surgery required for its removal. Sure, it's not life-threatening, as long as you stop the bleeding, but you're going to need some help in the long run.

You don't want to visit a hospital because that involves pesky things like 'questions', especially when guns are involved. Plus, you want a quick job, grip it and rip it. You want to get back on the road in search of your next job.

Working constantly has been incredibly therapeutic these last months. There's something purifying about being back on the road with nothing but cases to work, like the old days. And working provides wonderfully violent outlets for all that anger you harbor inside. It's not exactly healthy to transfer all your pent-up rage, at Crowley and your sister and the world, into killing monsters. It's effective of course but not healthy.

You're not sure if it's working long term, and you're not sure if you'll ever be truly healed but some nights you manage to sleep without nightmares. Some days you don't have any flashbacks from your month of fun trapped in that warehouse. And those odd days and nights of freedom are progress enough for now.

It's that small hope of getting better and needing to get back to work that sends you where you're going. The place you've avoided since you left. You've worked cases mere miles from there, but you always convinced yourself not to bother them. Slept in the back of your truck instead. It's not like you were curious about how they were or anything. It's not like you missed them.

But now here you are staring that heavy metal door in the face.

You fist pounds heavily on the reinforced steel as you try to shout over the rain, "strippergram, open up."

It's an agonizing few minutes before the door opens to reveal Dean grinning, "do I get to pick the song?"

He looks good. Better than he had the last time you saw him. He doesn't ask why you're here or slam the door in your face like he would be so justified in doing after your months of radio silence. He just smiles all the way to his eyes and looks you up and down, wet and shivering all the way to your toes.  

"Well, I'm sure you know the stripper song back catalog. But before I dance around for you I need a favor."

Maybe he is punishing you in his own way as he puts a finger on his chin, agonizingly slowly, more than aware that you're still standing in the wet, "I'm not really supposed to talk to strangers."

You flinch, even though he's joking, but luckily in the rain, it just looks like another chill running through you.

"Where are my manners, my names Buffy. I'm a vampire slayer, stripping is just a side gig." You hold out your hand to shake his, which he does but not without a small laugh at your choice of alias.

"Come on in Buffy, I think I have just the song for you."

You groan happily once you're inside the door, the warmth of the bunker enveloping you like a fluffy blanket. You're so happy to be out of the rain that you're completely ignoring Dean as he lists some of his favorite songs on his fingers, with an analysis of what makes each one a good choice for taking your clothes off.

It's only when he notices you limping down the stairs that his voice loses its amused lilt and he huffs, "seriously? Again? How are you still alive?"

You spin around at the bottom of the stairs, holding your hands up defensively, "this one was totally not my fault."

There's the eye roll you were expecting, you're half surprised it took this long, "what happened?"

"Get me a beer and promise me you won't laugh and maybe I'll tell you."

He obliges returning from the kitchen a minute later with two cold bottles and a straight face. He doesn't yet ask why you haven't sat down and with one sentence he doesn't need to.

"Ok, so I kind of got shot. In my ass."

Dean lasts all of ten seconds, maybe not even that, before he's laughing his ass off. Not literally like you of course. He laughs so deeply that he feels the need to wipe a pretend tear away when he finally stops. "I need to hear this story."

"Can I tell it while you're getting it out, please? Because it stings like a mother."

"It's still in there?" He seems surprised and his eyes flick briefly to your backside while his eyebrows shoot up, however you are starting to get frustrated.

"Of course, it is. It's not exactly an easy area for me to do it myself. I put something on it to stop the bleeding, but I require some assistance. If you would be so inclined?" You motion dramatically with your hand to the affected area.

"To go digging in your ass? You're asking me to boldly go where no man has ever gone before?"

You've fallen back into the teasing so easily that you can't help but grin with a faraway look in your eyes, "actually…"

He waves his hands in front of him, "ok, ok. I'll do it just stop talking."

Which is how you end up face down on your bed, wet jeans and underwear bunched around your ankles while Dean gets the first aid kit and the 'strong stuff'. You're lying there hoping that it's for disinfecting rather than his consumption when you hear the door open.

"Fuck, warn a guy next time."

You reach an arm behind you to tap the butt check that doesn't have a bullet encased in it, "don't tell me it's your first ass, Winchester?"

You can't see his face, but you hear a small groan, "you're funny. Why you don't you tell me how this happened while I get down to business."

"Oh, so professional. Must be all that Dr. Sexy you watch." You hiss as he peels the bloody bandage from your skin exposing it to air. "Careful, I would like to keep my butt looking this good. Anyway, I was a couple of towns over taking care of a vamp nest."

"Wait, you drove here?" he interrupts while he cleans up the dried blood, again more hissing from you.

"How do you think I got here? By wishing? And yes, it hurt like a bitch to sit on the whole way. Now stop interrupting me. As I was saying, it's all going fine, and by fine, I mean chop, chop, chop. I took out four of them when- HOLY FUCKING SHIT DEAN!"

His hands move away from you quickly with your sudden volume, so you shake your head. "I'm sorry, keep going but you talk about giving warnings?"

"You told me not to interrupt." He mutters as he leans over to resume his hunt for the bullet.

You grit your teeth, bearing down to take the pain. It's not your first time being shot so the sensation of having a bullet taken out is not new, but it is definitely the first time Dean has been the one taking it out of you. You don't, or can’t, speak again until you hear the bullet clink on the table, finally free, "well obviously interrupt me to say you're going to poke tweezers around, inside of me, and dig the thing out."

"What happened with the vamps?" He asks trying to keep you distracted while he's disinfecting you again.

You're on to his clever distraction ploy but you play along, talking through bared teeth and somehow managing to get the words out. Although in short, stunted sentences, "one of them. Hiding under bed. Must have been new. Tried to shoot me. Instead of going full vamp. Good for me. Bad for the junk. In my trunk."

Finally, he's putting a bandage over the wound and you let out a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding.

"Well that wasn't so bad was it?" he patronizes you sweetly while you, not so elegantly, try to roll off the bed in your half-naked state.

When you fail, to be elegant at least, and just end up in a heap you whine from the floor, "ok doctor you're done, get out so I can get dressed please."

Surprisingly he leaves without a comment about you staying undressed which allows you to, very carefully, change. When you join him again in the library it's the first time you notice the elephant in the room or the man mountain not in this one.

"Where's Sam?"

He smirks into his beer, apparently amused that you have only just now noticed the lack of Sam's presence. "He's on a milk run. I had some lore to look into."  

"Okay," you drag out the word as you get your previously opened beer and sit with him on the sofa, fidgeting awkwardly until you're in a comfortable position that doesn’t lean on the bullet hole. "Are you guys hunting separately a lot or…?"

He shifts a little in his seat, "no, like I said, just had some things to look into."

You don't want to push him since this is the first time you've seen or spoken to him in two months and if you're completely honest, you did miss him.

It's not like you hadn't thought about texting from the road. It's not like you didn't spend the first few weeks writing messages a couple of times a day only to delete them, because the longer you waited the more you had to say. But sitting here with him now you feel stupid and crazy. Stupid for not texting and crazy for leaving.

"So, you've got no time to hang out with little ol' me then since you've got all this important lore to look through?"

Then there's that voice again, the one that you always know is him even if he's not in the room. "Lucky for you sweetheart, I'm all done reading."

 


 

You'd watched TV for hours, never really settling on one thing. Something would be on for ten minutes and you'd argue over it the entire time until you changed channels and did it all over again. Somewhere along the way, he made you both grilled cheese and after that, you'd started drinking whiskey instead of beer. Doctors orders. Because you'd been shot, you deserved it.

Dean hadn't let that go either. He'd asked you multiple times to tell him exactly how it happened until, at one point, you'd acted it out for him. You think you really brought the character of Y/N to life, however, he said your vampire was a little one dimensional. That's when you heard the story of him being turned before, albeit briefly, so maybe that was why he was such a critic.

Not once did he look at you like you were a monster. In fact, every time he'd looked at you it had made you forget that monsters had ever existed.

Or maybe that was the whiskey.  

What you don't remember is falling asleep or how you got to your bed, which is where you woke up. Lying on your front with your limbs in all directions, looking like the chalk outline from Clue.

It's when you sit up and see Dean sitting in the chair in the corner, well slumped might be a better term, that you figure out how you got there.

"Hey dummy," you whisper as you gently shake his shoulder. It doesn't take much to wake him, you learn that Dean is a light sleeper as he shudders awake looking up at you with a dopey smile.

"Go lay down in your actual bed for a bit and I'll make pancakes."

"Pancakes?", his voice is thick with sleep. You've never heard it like that, all low and lazy.

"Mm-hmm. But you can't be comfortable like this, lie down, just for half an hour."  

You don't hang around to check he does as he's told or see the smile on his face get wider. You're already on your way to the kitchen to make some coffee in an attempt to eliminate your hangover before it really starts.  

It's strange how familiar you are with the place having not been here for months. But then they're both creatures of habit. The coffee is in the same place, above the sink. The rarely used ingredients like flour are in the back of the same cupboard they always are. The syrup is in the fridge next to the milk. All of these things you remember like you might remember in your own home. It's comfortable and warm to putter around with mixing bowls and heating skillets.

"Dean?" Sam's voice carries into the room and you lean out of the doorway and put on an entirely serious face. 

"Quiet, he's sleeping."

Sam's face lights up bright when he sees you and once he's down the stairs he picks you up in a quick but tight hello. "What are you doing here?"

"What does it look like? Making pancakes. You want some?"

"Sure, erm. But what about Dean?"

You finish whisking your batter, pulling out the whisk dramatically, like the TV chefs do, to check the consistency. "I told you he's sleeping." You neglect to mention that he’d fallen asleep in the chair in your room while you slept in the bed. That doesn't seem relevant.

"He's sleeping?"

You don't mean to look so exasperated at Sam but you're not sure why he's finding the scenario of you making pancakes in his kitchen while Dean sleeps so difficult to grasp.

"I rolled in last night with a minor little, teeny, tiny injury," you skilfully slip over the ass aspect, "and Dean patched me up. Then we hung out for a while. Had a little too much to drink, Dean fell asleep in a chair, so I told him to catch some shut-eye in his actual bed while I make pancakes. Coffee?"

You start pouring him some not waiting for an answer, but Sam is still preoccupied.

"Dean seems ok to you? Like he wasn't distracted or distant? Withdrawn maybe?"

"No. I mean his taste in TV is still terrible as ever, but he was fine. Why?"

Sam takes the coffee from you but immediately puts it down on the counter without taking a sip. That should be warning enough. "Dean's been getting worse, with the mark and some things that have happened. It's been almost a week. I haven't been able to get him to leave the bunker, he stays in his room or the library reading lore books and..."

"That's what he said he was doing when I got here, reading. But I asked him to take a break and we just hung out." Even as you're saying it you try to comb through any memories from last night. Any potential lingering weirdness that might be mark of Cain related. Is it weird that you come up with nothing? Dean was just Dean. Honestly, he was the same Dean who used to text you dumb one-liners after finishing a job. You joked and drank and besides the fact that he fell asleep in your room it was a pretty normal night.

"Sammy can I speak to you a minute?" Dean's voice appears from behind Sam and you both turn to see him standing there, arms crossed, looking pretty much terrifying. 

Sam steps out of the kitchen and they go far enough that you can't overhear them although the odd word does reach you. Not enough to make any sense though and after mere seconds you feel weird for trying to listen in, even unintentionally. Instead, you distract yourself by pouring out your first pancakes onto the hot griddle.

"Would you shut up I am not asking."

"But what if it makes a difference Dean. I mean she clearly-"

"You keep your mouth shut."

The end of their conversation is louder and more forceful than the rest. Loud enough that you couldn't help but hear the tail end before they both trudge back into the kitchen.

You try to break the tension as best you can, "coffee's in the pot Dean. Pancakes will be a few minutes."

Dean makes the sort of satisfied noise that only comes out of him at the mention of food and Sam's eyes bulge at his reaction, which earns him a nudge as Dean grabs a mug.

Ignoring them both you keep working, unaware of the silent continuation of their conversation taking place behind you. That is until you turn around with a stack of now cooked pancakes to find them giving each other the weirdest looks you're ever seen.

"Right. Not weird. Breakfast is up."

 


 

Sam has managed to avoid you for hours now, which is a testament to how insanely huge the bunker is, not his sneakiness. Sam cannot pull off sneaky. His height alone casts shadows you can see from miles away.

It’s later in the afternoon when you eventually find him in the electrical room of all places, reading.

"Hope you're not hiding from me?"

Amusingly he very almost falls off of his chair at the sound of your voice. Serves him right. "No, not hiding at all. I was just… what's up?"

You smirk as he gives up on trying to make an excuse. "I wanted to ask, erm, what you were saying this morning. How bad has he got?"

"I was hoping if I stayed out of the way he'd talk to you." 

"So, you were hiding?" You quickly counter.

Sam sighs, "yes but not from you."

He nods to another chair near him, silently inviting you to sit down. You do, but it somehow feels like when a teacher would ask to see you after class. You're automatically feeling guilty for something you haven't done.

"I'm worried about him Y/N. He's worried about him. That's why he's on this self-imposed lockdown."

You nod to yourself, "I get that, the mark isn't exactly known for sunshine and rainbows. But what does that have to do with me?"

Sam's face turns guilty like he's revealed a big secret, you find yourself rushing to reassure him, "you guys aren't as quiet as you think. I mean I only heard the tail end but I heard you mention asking me something?"

He runs his hand through his hair and you almost jibe him to stop fishing for compliments on his silky locks, but the air is thick in electrical. Sam is buzzing as much as the machines you're surrounded by.

"I can't really say. But just know that he cares about you."

"I know", you start aimlessly. "I care about him too."

He shakes his head, "no, you don't get it. I don't even think Dean gets it. When we still had the blade, I couldn't convince him to leave it here on a salt and burn. He practically slept with the damn thing in his arms, when he did sleep. But when we found you in that warehouse and he saw you… he just dropped it. Dropped it like it was a piece of junk he'd found at the side of the road. And last night you're here and suddenly he's sleeping again."

You still don't mention the fact that Dean slept in your room. It doesn't even cross your mind because you're so preoccupied with trying to work out what Sam is saying.

"What so you think I'm like some anti-mark or…?"

He looks at you with a mixture of disbelief and utter frustration. He looks at you like he's considering shaking some sense into you and only just resisting the urge. 

"No Y/N, I'm saying that you need to talk to Dean."

 


 

Sam's words repeat in your head as if you might understand them the more you replay them. You're so consumed with the puzzle that you're surprised to find yourself at Dean's door. It's open while he's sitting on his bed with his back against the wall, using his propped up leg to support the massive book he’s reading. You're never seen him so involved or concentrated in lore.

You sit at the end of the bed making it sink under you. It’s surprisingly comfortable to sit here considering the bullet hole. "Hey."

Despite your close proximity and weight on the bed, he looks at you like he had no idea you were there until that very second, "oh hey."

"I need to ask you something."

He nods, eyes returning to the lore in front of him, "shoot."

Even you're not expecting what comes out of your mouth next, but you know it's something that has been nagging at you for far longer than whatever Sam is getting at. 

"When-when I was in the hospital, before you, well, before you died. You text me that you were sorry. I guess I've been wondering what you were sorry about?"

He doesn't seem surprised at your question. He looks resigned to it like he's been waiting every day for you to ask. Even the answer itself seems like he's rehearsed it in his head a thousand times before. "That was when I started working with Crowley. He had the first blade and it was the only way I could kill Metatron. But after what he did to you, I thought…"

"You thought you owed me an apology for trying to save the world?" Your smile is small but it's there.

He shrugs, "well when you put it like that."

It’s not until that very second that you decide to try and push your luck since he seems so chatty, "what about this morning? I heard Sam tell you to ask me something?"

The last thing you expect is the reaction you get. He jumps up and takes a step back like the close quarters on the bed, with you, was suddenly too close for comfort. "We're not doing that."

You jump up yourself but only to maintain the conversation at eye level, "doing what exactly?"

"Asking you to stay. He's being an idiot and I'm not doing it like that." He doesn't seem to realize he's given you a somewhat coherent, actual truth.

"Asking me to stay?" You repeat, testing the words in your mouth to make sure they're what he just said. "Why would you ask me that? What do you mean you're not doing it like that?"

He's agitated now. You can see it's with himself for opening his mouth, but it doesn't stop his jaw setting tightly while he’s looking at you. "It doesn't matter. I know you probably want to get back on the road soon."

He's actually pushing you now. He has one hand on your shoulder and the other one is in front of you guiding you to the door.

Suddenly you find yourself fighting him, digging in your heels and trying to turn around against his arm, "what the hell? I never said anything about leaving yet."

"You never do, but I know how you like to up and leave." You don't need to look into his eyes to know he meant that exactly how it sounded.

Now you're angry. Maybe not mark of Cain angry but what he said pisses you off. Not just because he's got a point.

"I left because I had my own shit to deal with Dean. The whole fucking world doesn't revolve around you."

You slap your hand to your mouth hoping that will in some way stop what has already come out, guilt mixing with the anger in your belly. But you don't have time to dwell on your mistake because he snarls back at you.

"Didn't even bother to say goodbye though did ya, sweetheart?" The nickname has never sounded so cruel as it does at this moment. In fact, it’s never sounded cruel at all till now. Not even as a demon did his voice sound like it would psychically hurt you if it could.

You can't help yourself. The overwhelming need to retaliate because you're right and he's an idiot.

"Boo hoo, I didn't say goodbye. You went fucking deep space nine. I thought you were dead! And then when you're not dead and I'm supposed to be happy about it you're a demon telling me my worst nightmares. So yeah, I'm sorry that I couldn't face saying 'bye Dean' after that!" It sounds like the furthest thing from an apology, dripping in venom and sarcasm. And you're staring wide-eyed at him, taking big uneven breathes that move your entire chest, shocked by your own rage but letting the anger course through you unfettered all the same.

He rises to the challenge your eye contact makes. His lip twists but in something so opposite from a smile that you've no description for it. His arms raise in mock defense except there's no joke behind the movement.

"No worries honey. I didn't cry myself to sleep or anything. With your track record, I think I dodged a bullet."

The mere implication of your past is enough to wind you. It knocks you back, away from him, until you find just enough of your voice, "go fuck yourself, Dean."

You say his name like you want to leave no room for confusion that he'd gone too far and you were done. But as you make fast movements to finally leave the room you forget you've got into an argument with a man that has the mark of Cain imprinted on his soul.

He follows you, his voice booming down the corridor behind you, "that's it, sweetheart, get packing. It's too hard right?"

"Guys, what is going on?" Sam chooses the worst possible moment to investigate what has now become a shouting match.

"Oh, nothing. Guess what Sam? I'm going to be staying for a while."

Sam is unsure at your tone, eyes darting between you both still trying to catch up, but plays along anyway, "that's great. You're always welcome. Did he…?"

But before Sam can finish both yourself and Dean explode at the same time.

"LIKE HELL ARE YOU STAYING, I WANT YOU OUT!"

"I WOULDN'T GIVE YOU THE GODDAMN SATISFACTION OF WATCHING ME LEAVE!"

It lasts minutes. The silence is so tense that you can feel it like a physical barrier between you both. Sam stuck there as collateral damage.

Finally, he pulls away first, although it looks like a struggle for him to do so with his fists clenched and the veins in his neck beating furiously. Dean's eyes flare one more time before he turns and stomps back to his room, prompting you to do the same.

Both doors slam almost in unison.

 


 

You hadn't seen either of them for the rest of the day. Staying locked in your room with nothing but your resentment as it continues to bubble away beneath the surface. Mercifully you passed out eventually, exhausted from being so incensed.

When you wake up early and pad your way to the shower room even that is done with pounding, flat-footed steps as if you're hoping to wake him.

His door doesn't flinch.

Your bad mood ruins your shower. Where normally it might cure everything that ails you instead it only serves to become a competition. What can release more steam, the jets of hot water or you, from rage alone? 

The shower wins, and you grind your teeth on your way back to your room.

It's only as you almost walk past it that you notice Dean’s door is open now.

"Between what I did to Charlie, and what I'm doing to Y/N…"

Your name stops you dead.

"Charlie forgave you. Y/N will too. How about you forgive yourself?"

You hear Dean chuckle, although not happily. "Because I'm not exactly batting a thousand here, you know?"

Sam's voice rises enough that you don't have to lean into the doorframe any more than you already are.

"Yeah, I do know that but staying locked up in here, sitting on the ground, reading the same lore books over and over again it's not helping you. Pushing Y/N away, trying to push me away, that's not helping you either. You need to get back in the game for your own good. You can beat this Dean."

"Do you really believe that?"

You're not even a part of this conversation, but it still causes a physical ache inside of you. To hear the tragedy in Dean's voice, the self-loathing. It's too much. You start backing away as cautiously as you can, not for fear of being discovered but because you're terrified that you won't be able to stand it anymore and scream. That you'll march right into the room and try to slap some sense into Dean Winchester.

You double back to the shower room and stare at yourself in the mirror for the longest time, hands gripping the sink with white knuckles while you try to figure out what is wrong with you. What is making you this way? A walking emotional disaster. Your life used to be so simple. You hunted monsters and on rare occasions, you took a few days to cut loose. Your life was simple even if you were running from Crowley. It was black and white and nothing in between. And now you're constantly torn between a thousand different points on the emotional spectrum with no clue why.

Maybe it was obvious? Maybe there was some clear and huge reason in front of you that you couldn't see. Was everyone else laughing at you for being so oblivious?

You'd spent too much time on your own. That was it. The years of self-sufficiency have left you a social moron. You were missing the big clue because you hadn’t had to spot them in so long. 

There's a knock at the door that startles you so much that a squeak comes out. A goddamn squeak.

When you shake it off and open up Sam's there smiling as if you didn't just overhear the conversation he’d just had. Because of course, he doesn't know that you did.

"Hey, erm. We're going to head out this morning. Think we've caught a case."

You desperately try to sound the right amount of normal and interested, "oh?"

He seems to buy it, "yeah someone is taking people and leaving just their clothes."

"An R-rated monster? Think he's into live-action porn?"

Sam pulls a face. If you didn’t know any better you’d think it’s Deja-vu. But who knows, with the way you’re doubting your own social skills right now it could be indigestion. 

"Yeah, maybe. Listen, I would have asked but after last night I didn't think you'd want to tag along."

You know well enough to know that's not an initiation either.

"No, that's- I probably need to wait out my war wound for a bit. But I'll be here when you guys get back."

Sam smiles at that like it's the best news he's heard all morning.

 


 

The first day they'd been gone you hadn't known what to do with yourself, so, not dealing with boredom well, you'd washed all of your clothes. Down to every last sock. And not being able to settle one or the other you'd returned half to the dresser in your room and packed the other half neatly in your duffle.  

The second day you'd washed all the sheets in the place, even from the unused rooms, before making your bed last. Curling up into a freshly washed cocoon of comfort even though it was only mid-afternoon. You'd accidentally slipped into sleep and woken up in the early hours of the morning. Obviously, the only course of action then was to eat a bag of chips while sitting cross-legged on top of the map table. On top of the world. 

Because you could.

Having the place to yourself was kind of like Risky Business without all the prostitution.

And it turns out chores and lawless bunker life was a great distraction from the things you still can't figure out. Lying in bed watching Netflix for hours means you don't have to think about your fight with him. Driving to get a pizza before eating the entire thing and passing out in a cheese induced coma stops you remembering how hopeless he'd sounded before he left.

It's day three when Sam calls you to check in. He tells you that everything is fine and they’re starting to head home. Rather cryptically he also asks you to play some Taylor Swift when they arrive and he promises to explain later. 

But that was the morning and now it’s the afternoon. You only hear the rumble of the Impala in the distance because you’re outside washing your truck, something you’ve not been able to do in forever. Besides briefly looking into the general direction of the sound you don’t stop what you’re doing since everyone knows applying the wax is the most crucial part of the process. 

You’re still working when the engine shuts off and a car door slams. 

“Sorry I raided your supplies but I can wash Baby when I’m done here if you want?” 

You never get an answer.

Instead, Dean marches towards you, quickly closing the gap until he's there. In your personal space and forcing you to stand up straight against him. One calloused hand comes up to your cheek as you try to blink away those green eyes that are staring at you mercilessly, but it’s impossible because they fill your vision edge to edge. 

“You stayed.”

And because even inches from his face you’re oblivious till the bitter end you smirk at him, “duh.” 

There was no slow leaning down to you to warn you what was happening. First, there was nothing then there was him. His lips on yours. It's somehow bruising and gentle all at once. Those perfect lips of his are softer than you ever could have imagined and his tongue over yours, in your mouth, tasting you, takes your breath away. And that's before you catch up. When your brain finally comprehends that Dean is kissing you and kissing you good, you might add, you wrap an arm around his neck like you're hanging on for dear life. Which you kind of are as you move your mouth against his, heat pooling in your center. 

When you finally break apart, breathless, panting, grinning like the world's biggest idiot he somehow still has enough air left to form words.

"You're staying." He adds, in case the future was not properly encompassed in his previous statement.

"You asking?"

He smiles and honestly you’re not sure if your whole body is on fire, "nah, telling."

"If you think-"

You never finish the thought with his lips against yours again. As cliche as it sounds, it’s difficult to care. 

Because you get the joke now. The gag you kept missing. You're pretty sure this, kissing Dean, him kissing you? It was the cosmic punchline that kept going over your head. 

And if that wasn't funny enough you’ll later find out that Dean was inspired by going through puberty for the second time.