literature

Forgiven- Dean x Reader

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Literature Text

       Pairing: DeanxReader
       Warnings: None

       The metal front door of the bunker groans to a close, the clashing noise echoing through the concrete halls. Dean stands from his spot at the table to greet you with a smile on his face, so you stomp down the stairs without making eye contact.
“Hey, baby,” he starts cautiously.
“Don’t ‘hey baby’ me,” you snap, dropping a backpack full of research documents by Sam’s feet at the other end of the table.
“Baby- ah, Y/N, what’s wrong?” Dean’s brain is grappling for some sort of excuse, you can tell- and that makes angered heat rush to your cheeks.
“You don’t have anything to say to me about that case you sent me on today?” you ask sharply, turning for the first time to him with your arms crossed and a steely glare. Sam, seated beside you at his laptop, pretends to be suddenly very busy with an antiques webpage.
“What, th- the zombie case in Nebraska City?”
“Yes, Dean. The zombie case. Or, as you could have figured out by reverse image searching the picture you found, the fake zombie case.”
You toss a copy of The Nebraskan onto the table, which slides to rest in front of Dean, the headline declaring “Join the Parade of the Living Dead!”
When Dean says nothing, you brush past him (you attempt a shoulder-check, but the man is built like a Greek statue) into the kitchen.
You hear footsteps following your path, and as you approach the sink to wash the greasepaint from your hands your boots crunch on spilled cereal that fans across the tiles.
“Seriously?” you turn on your heel and yank open one of the tall cabinets against the wall. “I mean, I know we all had a rough childhood, but did you and Sam never learn the function of a broom?”
You begin raking the dried cereal into a pile, still ignoring Dean’s presence. After dumping the dustpan into the garbage and throwing the broom back into the cupboard you push past Dean again and head towards the bedroom.
“Y/N, please,” Dean says, standing in the corner as you yank the bedsheets into place. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you mad, I just thought-”
You drop your grip on the sheets and look him in the eyes. “If you really want to make me feel better, tell me that you didn’t know that Nebraska City was a dead lead.”
He drops his gaze to the floor.
“Why, Dean?” Your dry anger is quickly fizzling into teary confusion territory, so you straighten your shoulders and dig your nails into your palms. “This is the third dead case this week that you’ve sent me on.”
Dean restarts his sentence three times before he looks up at you, his brow darkening his features. “I wanted to know that you’d be safe.”
Tears are pricking the back of your eyes; You swallow and try to make your words forceful. “I’m a big girl, Dean. I can handle cases by myself, you know this.”
When you turn away you push the hair from your face swiftly, wiping away tears with your forearms. The bed frame creaks gently as you lay on your side, close your eyes and sigh.
The mattress dips, and you feel Dean’s hand rest on your leg. “I promise, no more crap cases.”
You open your eyes. His voice sounds sincere, and when you sit up you can see in his face that he’s telling the truth.
“And I think I know how to make this day up to you,” Dean whispers, his voice dropping and hand sliding up your jeans.
You link your arms around his neck, then nuzzle against his face. Dean melts into your touch, tracing a figure eight on the inside of your thigh.
You wait until you’re a breath away, when you can feel his lashes fluttering against your skin and can almost taste his whiskey breath when you whisper, “Do the dishes.”
His eyes, previously half-closed and dreamy, are now open fully. “What?”
“If you want to make it up to me, do the dishes,” you say in the same husky whisper, still almost touching those perfect lips.
Dean pulls back, disoriented, and then sighs. “I guess I deserved that.”
You lie back on your side in preparation for a nap, and Dean swats your butt with one of the pillows before he leaves for the kitchen.
“Forgiven,” you mutter before succumbing to sleep.
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