#dean reader insert

Summary:With the newlywed hunting humans caught, you and Dean Winchester need to address the drunken vows that neither of you can remember.
A/N: It’s taken a hoe (me, I’m the hoe) literally four years, BUT HERE IT IS

You traced the pink, puckered scar that dragged down your abdomen and across your hip. It was an angry reminder that not every monster was actually a monster. Some were … human.

Annie and Henry had done it before. Each year for their anniversary, in fact. Eight couples in eight days in different cities around the world for twenty years. It had been nothing more than bad luck (for them) that you’d been in Vegas for your first vacation in years, that Sam had happened to talk to someone from Mount Charleston, and that you and Dean had said your drunken vows.

“Does it still hurt?” His fingers reached out to trace the scar just behind yours. It had been three weeks before Dean allowed you to even leave the room without him and twice as long before you could leave the bunker. Even now you could see the guilt and worry in his eyes.

“Not physically.”

“I liked her too,” he said after a beat of silence. Annie’s face looming over you had been worse than the cut itself. She had been so kind, and you had liked her in spite of the red flags her eager invitation had raised. Dean took your left hand in his, playing with the ring you still wore.

He hadn’t taken his off either. Neither of you had brought it up in the months following your run in with the serial killers. It had seemed unimportant then, such a trivial detail after your near death and the (sober) night together that had followed it.

– – –

“So get–“ You ignored Sam’s voice and the opening of the door, hands running down Dean’s chest before slipping beneath his shirt. “I’ll, uhm, I mean, uh, bye,” Sam stammered, neither you nor Dean paying any attention.

The sudden slam of the door, however, had caused you both to laugh. “Do you think we should apologize?” you asked, breathless as Dean moved his lips away from yours to trace down your neck. He was careful to avoid the fresh stitches, but the adrenaline had yet to wear off and you weren’t sure it would hurt anyway.

“Sam should know the risks he takes walking in on newlyweds without knocking,” Dean answered, silencing you with a kiss before you could question him again. “Sam should know the risks he takes walking in on you and me without knocking.”

– – –

“Are you ready for dinner?” Dean asked. You couldn’t help the smile that lit your face when he asked. Once you had healed enough to freely leave the bunker – and then waited another two weeks for Dean to agree that you had healed enough to freely leave the bunker – he had begun taking you to dinner every week, even during weeks when you were hunting.

More often than not, Sam would sequester himself to the library while Dean laid out a blanket on the floor or a tablecloth over the kitchen table and treated you to the latest recipe he’d discovered. During hunts, he would whatever meal you’d been craving and bring a movie to the hotel room you all shared and tell Sam to eat in his bed instead of on the couch with the two of you.

Dean had been … cautious on those nights. Holding your hand or wrapping his arms around your shoulders, but never leaning in to kiss you unless you moved toward him first. Instead he would fill the night with questions and honesty, asking you about your family, about yourself, and answering whatever questions you posed in return. The dinners never ended in either of your beds – although plenty of other nights did – and he had made a habit of reminding you that he “truly cared about you” before he left you at the door to your bedroom and disappeared inside your own.

It had taken a few weeks before you realized what was happening. Dean was dating you. Proper courting, dating you. Although the rings had gone unacknowledged, something had undeniably shifted. You no longer had two separate lives, but an unconventionally and admittedly confusingly tangled single life. Apparently, without vocal acknowledgement, you had decided together that the easiest way to untangle the mess you’d found yourselves in was to continue forward with the, again unspoken, acknowledgement that neither of you regretted it.

You and Dean had started dating, without ever saying a word to each other.

“What’s on the menu tonight?” you asked, standing and allowing the flannel with missing buttons to cover your scar again.

“A picnic.”

– – –

Sounds native to the countryside that had become home filled the air as you watched the sun set, content to lean against the man next to you and the impala behind him in comfortable silence. It had been the perfect picnic. Dean had bought your favorite sandwiches. You weren’t sure how he had slipped out of the bunker without you noticing, but he driven to town to get them. He had even stopped by the liquor store.

You felt a soft kiss in your hair before he spoke, and you shifted in his hold until you could look into his eyes. “You know how much I care about you, don’t you?” You ignored the pang of uncertainty at his words. It was always care and never love.

“As much as I care about you.” The silence that followed your words served only to intensify the ache to admit it was more than caring, but you were patient. You always had been with Dean.

Dean had been so careful with you since Annie and Henry. He had carried you around the bunker the first few days, refusing to let you stand on your own. He always hovered near you on hunts, although he knew better than to stop you from fighting. He was simultaneously softer and harder when you trained.

But the change hadn’t only been physical. You might not have noticed if it had been. Dean was always protective, and even more so after an injury, but it was more than that. He would speak slowly, as if weighing what each word meant. He was slow to respond when you reached out to him and quick to ensure it was what you truly wanted. He fought against his instinct to close himself off and forced vulnerability between you. You could see the battle in his eyes each time you asked him about himself.

– – –

You were lying in the bed of the honeymoon suite, half dressed, as Dean tended to the cut that had begun bleeding again. “Do you really not remember anything about that night in Vegas?” you asked, struggling to distract yourself from the sharp sting of his fingers.

“Nothing …” You could tell he was far more focused on his fingers than your conversation, and you struggled to think of some way to force him into saying more as pain momentarily clouded the room. “Just waking up next to a beautiful woman I somehow tricked into my bed.” His voice was quiet, distracted, as if he hadn’t realized that he said anything out loud.

His words surprised you. Enough that you didn’t feel him pressing wrapping a bandage around your middle until it caught against your fresh stitches. You hissed, and his eyes jumped to yours, suddenly focused again. “Am I hurting you?” he asked. There was nothing in the way he looked at you that hinted at the admission he’d just made. That he felt he had tricked you into his bed; that it wasn’t something you had wanted as well. Maybe he hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud.

– – –

His quiet voice tore you from your reminiscing, from your reminder that Dean had believed you’d woken up in Vegas regretting him. He spoke slowly, brow furrowed in concentration as if struggled to find the right words, or struggling to remember them. He wouldn’t meet your eyes. “After … everything that happened … waking up in Vegas … then nearly … nearly losing you … I wanted to be careful.” With this admission, something changed. Dean held you close to his side, and a hand rose to cup your cheek, his fingers playing along your temple as he continued.  “There were so many questions, so many things we couldn’t talk about … but those things don’t really matter, and all that matters is that I love you and I need you to hear me say it.”

You didn’t hesitate, didn’t give him a moment to wonder if you had regretted him all those months before. “I love you too.”

– – –

Part One: Vegas Lights
Part Two: Desert Stars
Part Three: Neon Signs

Pairing: Dean x reader

Word Count: 706

_____

You sniffled as you limped back into the motel room. Everything hurt. Dean had been pissed off before you even left and now that you were coming back without dinner you were expecting another fight.

Thankfully he was in the bathroom when you walked inside quietly. You went to your duffel and grabbed the first aid kit, setting it on your bed as you winced.

A door opened and Dean stepped out, pausing after half a second to stare at you.

“I’ll order a pizza to the motel,” you said, trying to unzip the red bag.

“Sweetheart, what happened?” he asked, rushing over, his voice a soft worried tone you’d not heard before. 

“Hit and run. I’m fine, really,” you said. Dean stopped you when you reached for the bag again, his hand laying gently over your wrist.

“You’re hurt,” he said. You shrugged, a small ache running through your shoulder. He unzipped the bag and looked you over before he gently pushed you to sit down. He knelt down and pulled off your boots, putting a hand on your leg, spotting the torn part of your leggings. “I’m gonna cut these off, okay?”

“They’re ruined anyways,” you said. He grabbed a pair of heavy duty scissors from the bag and started at your ankle, cutting up to about your thigh before he sighed.

“You’re all bruised,” he said, looking up through his lashes. “Y/N, we should take you to the hospital.”

“A hospital? We hunt, we don’t go to hospitals,” you said.

“Well you just got hit by a car and I don’t know how to fix that,” he said.

“I’m okay. I just need to rest,” you said. “I’ll order the pizza and-”

“Forget about the stupid food,” he said. Your mouth snapped shut and he leaned forward on his knees, putting a hand on your cheek. “I’m sorry. I was hungry and got grumpy and took it out on you. Now please, please, let me take you to the hospital.”

He tucked your hair behind your ear, his thumb brushing close to a scrape you felt on your cheek.

You nodded and he stood up, picking you up along the way and carrying you out the door.

“Hey,” said Dean when you woke up in your hospital bed a few hours later. He smiled and slide a container towards you. “I got tacos and nachos and breadsticks cause I know you love a good breadstick.”

“Yes, I do,” you said, turning in bed some, setting the food aside on your small table. You shut your eyes again, Dean running his hand over your head. “These drugs are great whatever they have me on.”

“Well you have blunt force trauma. They want to make sure you’re alright,” he said. You nuzzled into his touch, Dean sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Why didn’t you call? I could have picked you up. You could have been seriously hurt.”

“You were angry,” you said. “You get…angry sometimes.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “I wish I could promise you that I won’t shout over stupid shit anymore but I can’t.”

“Everyone shouts over stupid shit. It’s just…we had a long day and a long hunt and that gets piled on top of it and it sucks,” you said. “It’s like I’m not your girlfriend anymore, I’m-”

“I think that’s where you have it all wrong. You’re my best friend, before anything else, you’re that. I just happen to be hopelessly in love with you,” he smiled. With a hum you opened your eyes, Dean kissing your forehead. “I’m sorry. I know it was a long day and I know I take it out on you, even if you had one too.”

“You were hungry and grumpy,” you said. “We’re okay, Winchester.”

“Well I will try to be better about days like today if you call me next time you get hurt,” he said. “Deal? I don’t want to lose you.”

“Yeah,” you said. “You got a deal, Winchester.”

______