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The bunker is quiet, save for the scratch of fabric against nickel and the soft humming of a man, content. Dean Winchester sits with his socked feet up on the map table, bouncing slightly along with the song in his throat. He scrubs at the disassembled pieces of his beloved M1911A1 until they shine like a mirror. Of the things that John Winchester had taught him while growing up, he is most grateful for his ability to take care of Baby and to clean a gun to military precision. Dean lays the finished piece on a cloth with the others and takes a sip of his beer, his eyes roaming over the map in search of any unusual activity. Things have been quiet for a while, but Dean knows it is just the calm before the storm. Winchesters don’t get a day off.
A long creak of the heavy iron front door breaks the silence in the bunker, but Dean doesn’t look up immediately. He assumes that it’s Sam, returning from his grocery run.
“If you forgot the pie again, don’t even bother coming down the stairs,” he calls out with soft amusement, re-focused on his gun slide.
There is no answer; just a ragged, hitched breath that echoes in the cavernous room.
Dean’s head snaps up and his hair stands on end, spine suddenly straight as he turns toward the noise he recognizes immediately.
That’s when he sees you standing at the railing, shaking, your face wet and swollen with tears. You look small, and that’s what makes him stand up before he realizes he is moving. You were never small, even on a hunt. Not when you were staring down a werewolf. Not when you were helping him patch up his wounds in some dingy motel bathroom. You were tough, even when he couldn’t be.
“Y/N?”
The oil-stained rag drops from his hand and he is moving before your name leaves his mouth.
You stumble down the first few steps and then you just collapse, the fight leaving your body all at once. Dean meets you halfway, catching you before your knees can touch the metal grating. He pulls you against his chest, his arms wrapped around you both firmly and gently. You can feel the fear radiating from his pores; terrified that you were hurt…or worse. Dean moves one hand to grip your shoulder and the other to cradle the back of your head, pressing you into the warm fabric of his shirt.
“I gotcha,” he says softly, his voice rumbling against your hair. “C’mere. I gotcha, kid.”
You cling to him, the tears coming in another wave now that you are safe. His warmth and the smell of motor oil, gunpowder, and soap is your only anchor in a world that is spinning out of control. He holds you firmly, just waiting for the storm to pass. Despite wanting to know what happened, he is giving you time. The important thing is that you are safe.
“Just breathe,” he murmurs, “I’m right here. Nowhere else to be.”
Only when he feels you begin to pull away does he move to guide you to a chair, pulling another up right in front of you, his knees knocking against yours.
“Hey,” he begins, his voice low and rough, trying to keep his cool, “you don’t have to talk to me but-”
“It’s my…” you choke out, “It’s my - the guy I’ve been with.”
Dean’s face doesn’t change, but his eyes harden, just for a moment. He doesn’t say anything, though. He just listens. Inside, he is screaming, throwing things, cursing…but his face is soft. Open.
“I tried to make it work,” you whisper, shame dripping from your words. You can’t even meet his eyes. “I tried to make it work for ten years, Dean. You know me, I’m- loyalty is everything but…he-he’ll just freeze me out until I do what he wants. I’ll do whatever he wants just to make it stop because the silence…” You choke again on your words. Dean’s jaw tightens. “I think he hates me. I actually think he hates me…the way he talks to me. He makes me feel crazy and w-when he throws things against the wall, it’s like he wants to-”
“Hit you, but he can’t yet.” Dean finishes, softly, coming from a place of experience. “Like he’s trying to scare you…or warn you.”
You meet his eyes for a moment, “Yeah…”
Dean swallows a lump in his throat, the rage boiling in his blood, but he won’t let it out yet - not with you.
“Tonight, I…I don’t know what made tonight any different but he-” you squeeze your eyes shut. “He didn’t care if I said no, that I wasn’t feeling good, he just…I guess he felt like I owed him and he-”
The air in the bunker seems to drop several degrees and you feel Dean go tense in front of you. He understands immediately.
“But I didn’t fight him off…I just-” you take a shaky breath, “I just laid there and- so it’s like I let it happen. I let him do that to me. I feel so stupid-”
“Hey,” Dean interrupts, voice firm, “Y/N. Look at me.”
You hesitantly meet his eyes, terrified that he’s going to tell you what men usually tell you. That you didn’t fight back, so you must have-
So it couldn’t have been…
His green eyes burn with an intensity that makes you both want to hide and lay everything out in the open.
“Listen. I’ve seen Hell. I’ve seen the worst shit this universe can throw at us. And I know how hard it is to fight a war when the enemy is in your own house.” His voice cracks slightly with grief and barely suppressed rage as he reaches out to gently wipe a tear from your cheek. “I don’t know exactly what you’ve been through these last ten years. I know it was bad. But I also know that you didn’t let anything happen to you. You did what you had to to survive.”
“I feel weak, Dean,” you nearly whimper, your eyes filling with tears again with the shame burning in your stomach, “I hunt vampires and demons and things that would make most people piss themselves. How could I let a human do this to me?”
“Because monsters don’t always look like monsters, kid.” Dean answers, gently squeezing your hand, “Sometimes they look like the guy you’ve loved for a decade.”
You let out a soft, watery sigh, and then nod, tears dripping from your chin as you sniffle.
“Tell you what,” Dean says, his voice abruptly calm, almost gentle. He stands up and begins reassembling his gun as he speaks, “There’s leftovers in the fridge. Why don’t you grab something to eat, grab a beer, and get some sleep? I got all the good channels in my room.” He racks the slide back with finality and then slides the gun into the back of his waistband. “Sam will be back soon, but you know where the guns are just in case.”
“Where are you going?” You ask, though you already know.
“I’m going for a drive,” he answers as he pulls on his leather jacket and grabs his keys.
“Dean, wait-” you stand up, panic flaring for a moment, “He’s not…he’s not a ghost. He’s not a demon. You can’t- he’s just a guy.”
Dean finishes pulling on his boots and walks over to you, looking you in the eyes, “Just because he doesn’t have fangs don’t mean he ain’t a monster.”
“Dean-” You nearly beg.
“I just wanna talk.” He assures you, then presses a kiss to the top of your head, lingering for a moment, “Lock the door behind me.”
“Dean-” you start, but he’s already on the stairs, his boots heavy on the metal. “Dean!”
Dean continues up the stairs without looking back.
“Dean, stop!” You shout, your voice cracking, “I’m telling you no! You’re not listening to me!”
Dean freezes on the seventh step as the words hang in the air, his knuckles white on the railing as he lets out a heavy, conflicted breath. He stands there for a moment, shoulders rigid with the effort it takes to hold back all of his rage and vengeance. Not at you, but in defense of someone he considers family.
When he turns around, the coldness in his eyes is gone. Instead, he looks stricken. Guilty.
He slowly makes his way back down the stairs and sets his keys down on the table with a deliberate, soft clink. He does the same with his gun and then shows you his hands, empty. Unarmed.
“I’m sorry,” he says after a long moment, voice rough with shame. “It’s your decision. I ain’t gonna be the one to take that from you.”
You visibly relax and step into his arms once more, breathing in the scent of old leather on his jacket. He hugs you tightly, cheek resting on the top of your head.
“I gotta be honest, though, I wanna go over there. Every fiber of my being wants to go over there and kill that sonofabitch for what he did to you.”
“I know,” you whisper into his shirt.
“But I’m not gonna ignore you either. Your no’s gotta mean something, or else I’m just like him.”
You start to protest. You start to say that he could never be like him, but Dean continues.
“You call the shots, kid. I’m not going anywhere until you tell me to.”
You do pull back then, and look up at him. Seeing the restraint it is taking him to stay put pulls a new wave of fresh tears from your eyes.
Relief.
“Let’s go heat up those leftovers.” Dean suggests, “Then we can just…sit.”
“Okay,” you whisper.
“Okay,” Dean repeats, and then he takes off his boots.