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Dean takes one look at you and knows you're not okay. He hops up off the couch to take your bag and sets it aside. When you make no move to do it, he also pulls off your coat. Then, he drops down to remove your footwear, which he tosses aside.
Before Dean can ask what's wrong, he stops himself. Something is telling him it's best not to open the wound just yet. That's okay, he's always been better at the physical stuff anyway.
“C’mon,” Dean says as he gently nudges you over to the couch. Once there, he flops down on his back and holds his arms out wide, a universal gesture for a hug or a cuddle.
Half of you wants to fight the comfort, to run away from it, but the other half of you craves the slight relief it will bring. You gingerly climb on top of him because, ultimately, you can't say no to that face, even when everything feels like it will never be okay again. Maybe especially then.
While you get comfortable, Dean hooks the blanket at your feet with a toe and manages to drag it up far enough for him to reach down and grab it. With a triumphant noise, he arranges the blanket over you both.
“That's it, Sweetheart, let me hold you,” Dean says sweetly.
It's not enough to fix everything, but God does being in Dean's arms help. It feels illegal, like he's some sort of illicit substance. Someone should be trying to sell this! “Cuddling a Dean Winchester for just ten (10) minutes a day could change your life!! Call now to get a quote on our 2026 model, which comes with enough affection to power a small nation!!” You snort at the ridiculous infomercial your brain made.
“Wanna let me in on the joke?” Dean brings a hand over so he can stroke your cheek with a thumb.
“Thought up an infomercial for cuddling,” you explain.
“Can I star in it? I gotta work my way up if I want to make it to the big screen. I'm not getting any younger,” Dean jokes.
“Samuel L. Jackson didn't start acting until his forties, and you're getting hotter as you get older,” you explain. “So yes, you can star in the infomercial.”
You zone out as Dean gets distracted by Samuel Jackson being forty-five when he made “Pulp Fiction.” The moment of levity was nice, but it's slipping away. You can feel the sticky tar of awful thoughts and feelings latching on to you again. What are you going to do? How are you going to survi-
“Hey, Sweetheart, where'd you go?” Dean asks, softer than he was speaking before. He runs a soothing hand across your back.
“I'm sorry,” you say. You aren't even sure why. The zoning out? The fakeout of being happy for a minute?
“Hey, I've had my fair share of shit, I get it,” Dean says with a shrug in his voice. “You didn't throw anything, so you're probably doing better than I would have.”
Dean is, like, eighty percent bravado, but the other twenty percent is softer than the blanket he's draped over you. It's strange sometimes to reconcile the two versions of him together, but other times it makes all the sense in the world.
“Thank you,” you tell him.
“Anytime.”
Dean makes a couple taps on his phone. “Want a distraction?”
You think that if he can't distract you, nothing probably can, but you play along. “Yeah.”
Dean pulls up, “Scooby-Doo, Where Are You?” On his phone. “Best show when you're feeling blue,” Dean says decisively as he positions his hand so you can both watch the phone.
You get a little reprieve from the misery at the knowledge that he’s sharing something special with you. Dean might not always know what to say, but he’s fantastic at showing up for you in the ways he knows how. He’s amazing at making you feel seen - he clearly paid attention to the phone tutorial you gave him the other day.
Life may be hard to deal with right now, but it is made easier with Dean. So, it’s only a little surprising when, somewhere around the third episode, you find yourself getting tired. Your body feels heavy, and your blinks are getting longer.
“Get some shuteye, I'll still be here when you wake up,” Dean promises.
You try to argue with him about how he’ll get bored or sore muscles or something, but you can't finish the thou…