John Winchester was an ass. He’d oppressed Sam and Dean their whole life — not like yours didn’t do the same to you — but it’d come to a head when Sam argued with John and then left for Stanford in the middle of the night. And, of course, he took it out on Dean like a shithead would, saying ‘oh, you didn’t watch Sammy’.

Dean didn’t feel like an attack dog around you, which is why he’d run away to your house— you, his best friend since you were both four, snotty nosed children who relied on each other for help. John’d told him to cut ties with you, but he couldn’t help but run right back to you— he associated your name with safety.

You’d given him warm clothes, so he was cozy while watching you prepare some food for him— god, was he doing the wrong thing? His dad needed him, he should probably get back, but he didn’t want to leave you, it was the safest he’d felt in months— you’d probably grab his arm and tell him to forget that shit that he called his dad.

God, he was just so grateful for you, that even if he’d cut you off without warning you’d welcomed him in as soon as he showed up at your door in the pouring rain. You said he wasn’t intruding — was he intruding? — but you couldn’t help the doubt anyway, he was Dean Winchester, of course he’d doubt himself, it was gospel, that he’d either be drunk, guilty, or doubtful, and you hated that John had done that to him.

"Sweetheart," he murmured, swallowing heavily— that was always a signal that he wasn’t ok at all, "y’don’t have t’ do this.” If he had words to describe you, it’d be nice, warm, safe, pretty, funny, home, safe— there was nothing better than you.

Dean wanted to be your sweet boy again, and you his safety, you always felt safe.