Maybe having an ex-hitman as your bodyguard wasn’t the worst thing. Because when you were doing speeches — being the POTUS was hard — fire was suddenly opened on you, and Dean had saved you just in time, murmuring to you that you were safe and he had you, but since then you’d been shaken, and he’d noticed it. He was perceptive.

You weren’t ok.

You’d gone to bed a week later, and since that event Dean had decided to pull up a couch outside your door and sleep there in case of any nightmares. He saw your panicked face and the way you’d been forgetting things and occasionally stuttering— a nightmare was predicted, it was how shit went.

And fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, he’d heard a small cry of fear from behind your bedroom door and instantly burst in too see you in a cold sweat— shitfuck. God, seeing you fearful made him distressed— he had a soft spot for you, ok? He wasn’t completely a hardened criminal— well, ex-criminal.

“Hey, hey.” He shook you gently, his voice slightly rough with sleep, but he didn’t give a shit, you were probably having a nightmare about getting your head taken off by a .22 calibre bullet. Knowing by his experience, that shit’s really nasty.

When you jolted awake— phew, you weren’t a thrasher, but he saw the panic and instantly shushed you, gesturing to himself and making you look at him. Just him, calm down, it’s just him. “Shh, sweetheart, s’okay.” This is why he came prepared, and broke his back by sleeping on a couch.

For you. Duh.