dean winchester was not one for long-term romantic engagement.

it just wasn’t in his blood, alright? and god knows it was difficult enough to keep himself sane on the road, let alone a partner who wasn’t dragged into hunting at the ripe age of six. and, hell, he’d seen what had happened with sam. with jess. with his mom. he didn’t want to risk it with anyone.

maybe it was a shitty way to live his life. never settling down out of fear. but it was the only way that he could live it, really.

anyway, he got restless if he was still too long. practically bouncing on his heels to go out, to go hunt- he couldn’t have settled even if his life was stable enough to allow it.

but he knew who he’d choose if he had to settle down.

it’d be you. it would always be you. you were his ideal…everything.

ideal body, ideal voice, ideal personality- it was like someone had taken his deepest fantasy of a person and poured it into a mold, and out popped you.

you’d been on and off since he was sixteen. he’d met you on his first lone hunt– in search of something to take his mind off the worry that was creeping into his bones, was sammy doing alright alone? what if i don’t make it back? am i really good enough to do this?, something to let him breathe.

and that had tapered off into a whirlwind of a teenage relationship, nothing real or concrete but totally passionate– and he’d been stuck on you ever since. it was downright embarrassing.

if he had a hunt in your state, he’d stop by your house. if he was passing through your state, he’d stop by your house. if he was in a four-state radius of yours, he would stop by your house. it was ridiculous.

he wasn’t attatched. he wasn’t in love. you just…knew how to show him a good time, yeah. well, that story held up for about a year.

he’d driven across the country to you after a blow out fight with his dad, once, when he was eighteen. he’d stayed at your place for about a week before leaving in the middle of the night, a note- the most basic courtesy- depressingly absent from your bedside table. and with his ever-changing phone number, you didn’t think you’d ever see him again.

until he’d shown up again the next year. and then once every two or so months after that.

he was such an asshole.

but this pattern had continued for the better part of ten years- him showing up, you taking him in reluctantly, and dealing with all of his emotionally baggage bullshit while practically nursing himself back from the brink of death from one grievous injury or another.

or just fucking.either way, one of you ended up inside of the other.

you knew about the hunting. of course you did, it would’ve been difficult to hide it from you, especially when most of his wounds were in the shape of claw marks or gouges or teeth. he’d stopped coming over recently. the past year had been weird. maybe it was because of his absence, maybe it was because of other things- but it’d just been weird. slightly freeing, but you also felt as if you were going through some withdrawls.

and when would he show up aside from when you least expected it? who would he be if not the grinning face haunting every corner of your fairly normal life? he wouldn’t be dean winchester, that was for sure.

so here he was. at midnight. the impala was parked just behind your car- boxing it in, much like he was currently doing to your body, one arm bracing against the doorway. “hey, sweetheart.”

he grinned like he wasn’t being a total dick. “sorry, it’s been a while. i’ve got a lot to tell you. sammy’s back, you heard? you got any food? i’m starving.

he knew he was being shitty. he knew you knew he was being shitty. but that smile, and those goddamn eyes, were murder to your pride.

he was willing to grovel, if pushed to do so. he’d missed you. he’d genuinely, truly missed you, and he’d die (again) for a hug right about now.

not like he’d say that. not like he’d ever say that.

god, this was a terrible idea.