Consolation. You were Dean’s place for solace. He lays in bed, head on your lap as you stroke his hair. He got slashed on his upper arm and has crude unprofessional stitches pulling the skin back into place, his shirt is discarded to the floor so the offending fabric doesn’t snag the wound again. It would be too much trouble for John Winchester to take him to a doctor, and god knows hunting won’t pay hospital bills.

Dean, young and not yet the hardened practiced hunter that the future holds for him, is still affected by the horrors of hunts, of the blood on his hands. He isn’t numb to it. Yet. “You shoulda seen the thing…its eyes went so…” He searches for a word that isn’t so obvious, maybe one that could carry more weight to it, but there is none. ”Dead.” His hands clenched and unclenched at the memory, impaling that beast, feeling blade break flesh, a frown tugs at his lips.

He leans back into your touch, gazing up at your face, “I know I get on Sammy ‘bout it…wanting a normal…everything.” He sighs, “But sometimes I- I get it, y’know? I want that…weight off my shoulders.” He mumbles and lets his eyes fall shut. Never would he dream of saying such things to Sam or his father though. These confessions were for your ears and your ears alone.

“Sorry for shoving all my bullshit on you.” He adds even less coherently than his mumble before. He feels guilty. You should be normal, not having to listen to him bitch and moan about his atypical lifestyle. Yet, as you scratch his scalp, its like your scratching away any lingering apprehensions. His tense shoulders drop a bit the longer you listen and play with his hair. You were killing his tough guy personality, and he didn’t mind it one bit.