Request: HI I love your fics!! could you do a deanxreader where dean
broke his right hand on a hunt and can’t shave himself so the reader, with
hidden feelings for dean, does it for him with lots of fluff please
Word Count: 1,270
“Ouch! Jesus Christ, that’s a
bitch.” The muffled cursing comes from behind the bathroom door, then followed
by the clinking sound of something falling into the ceramic sink, and finally
a, “Son of a bitch!”
Despite the laundry pile you’re
carrying, you swerve across towards the door and knock a couple of times with
your free hand, “Dean? Everything alright in there?”
There’s a moment of silence, and
then a short reply, “Fine.”
He’s obviously frustrated – a tone
you’ve quickly become accustomed to hearing after dragging him home from the
hospital a few days ago. He’d landed badly after being catapulted across the
room by an overzealous ghost and broken a hand, whereas Sam had gotten off with
a concussion and you’d somehow managed to slip away injury-free – which had
inevitably resulted in you skivvying around to cater to their every whim.
While Sam had managed to get over
himself somewhat and take it easy while the hellish egg on his head goes down,
Dean has been trying to do everything as normal. He hates being laid up like
this, and trying to get everything done for himself has just resulted in more
hurt and hindrance than help.
You still linger outside the door
for a few moments, “Can I help at all?”
He hesitates, and for a long
moment you wonder if he’s actually going to accept, “I could use a clean
“Got one here. Mind opening the
door?” You ask, after trying to get in and finding the door locked. Again, a
hesitation, but then the door opens, Dean fumbling with his good hand for a few
moments to get it undone.
You pride yourself on being able
to keep a poker face. Sometimes giving the enemy no indication of your emotions
could mean the difference between life and death – sometimes it’s imperative that
a victim doesn’t know what you’re thinking. But this time, when it’s important
that you don’t make a sound so Dean doesn’t slam the door in your face, you
just can’t seem to freaking manage it.
“I know, alright?” He huffs as you
sidle into the bathroom and begin draping the towels from the pile over the
towel rack, trying desperately not to laugh. It’s not your fault – he’s covered
in shaving cream – it’s smudged over his nose and there are even splatters in
his eyebrows. It’s all white, apart from a trail of crimson blood slipping down
the side of his face.
“You can’t shave left-handed?” You
guess, taking note of the razor left in the sink and the cast immobilising his
right hand. He sighs wearily, and then nods.
“Nope. I’ve never had to try
before, and I was starting to look even more homeless than Sam.” He complains,
taking a towel from you when you offer one to him.
“Dean, for crying out loud, you
shattered your hand. I think you’re allowed to look homeless for a little
while.” You reassure him, balancing the rest of the laundry – mostly jeans and
a handful of flannels – on the countertop, “If you really want it sorted, I’ll
do it for you.”
As soon as the offer has left your
mouth, you regret it – the very idea of managing to get so close to him without
blushing like a five year old, or completely losing your breath… impossible.
And yet, he nods, smiling ruefully.
“Would you mind? I just… can’t.”
He shrugs, and you smile back, nodding and shooing him off towards the closed
“Go on then, sit down.” You
instruct, picking up the razor and running the warm tap to clear it off. You
let the tap run for a little while, filling the basin, and then approach Dean
carefully, “You have to promise to stay still. Usually when I’m so close to
someone with something this sharp it doesn’t end very well for them.”
He laughs, leaning back with the
force of it, “That’s not encouraging, Y/N.”
“I said I’d do it. I never said
I’d do it well.” You remind him with a smile – humour: humour is how you get
through this without making a complete idiot of yourself.
“Much appreciated, beautiful.” He
winks, and it’s all you can do to force out a snort and place your fingers
beneath his chin to tilt his head up a little.
“Mm, whatever you say,” Sometimes
it’s difficult not to take his words too seriously, and you have to remind
yourself that Dean Winchester can and will flirt with anything that moves –
you’re not special to him beyond being good friends and hunting buddies.
“Well, the closer you get, the
more I’m thinking it.” He mumbles, remaining still as stone as you skin the
razor over his skin smoothly – you’re painstakingly careful, starting on the
opposite side to the cut on his lower cheek. He chuckles when you lean back to
dunk the razor in the sink, then move back over to him.
“I’ll stay well back, then.” You
wink in response, but contradict your own statement by leaning close enough to
him that his breath ghosts over your face. His eyes remain trained on your
face, watching every movement as you press your lips together, squinting in
concentration. You try your best to ignore it, being as careful and steady as
your humanly can manage while you get to work.
His eyes don’t leave you until
you’re finished, patting down his face with a towel and then handing it to him
– only then does he force himself to look away, watching as you clear up and set
everything back in its place.
When he finally manages to open
his mouth, he’s expecting the words that come out to be ‘thanks, Y/N’ –
instead, they’re, “When you’re concentrating, your nose does this funny little
You turn slowly, quirking an
eyebrow in a manner he can only describe as adorable, “Excuse me?”
“It kinda… wrinkles. But just at
the tip. Right here.” He taps his own nose, a small smile playing on his lips,
“And you blink a lot. I just… never noticed before.” Dean confesses, giving a
nonchalant shrug and trying to ask as if he isn’t mortified by the words.
Rather than make a comment, you
give a smile, wiping your hands off and stepping back, “I suppose I’m not the
kind of person people pay a whole lot of attention to.” It’s not meant to be
self-deprecating, but Dean takes it that way nonetheless.
“You have got to be kidding me.” He rolls his eyes, standing up and poking at
the cast as if his hand would be magically healed, “Y/N, you turn heads
everywhere you go.”
“Yeah, right, of course.”
“Hey, look at me,” He takes your
wrist in his hand, turning you to face him properly, “You’re beautiful. Really,
truly beautiful. And smart, and kind, and funny. And people notice that. I notice that.”
That’s when your heart really does skip a beat – his eyes are on
yours, emeralds glinting in the harsh white light of the bunker’s main
“You don’t need to reply to that.
Didn’t mean to back you into a corner. Sorry.” Dean smiles sheepishly,
scratching at the back of his neck with his good hand – but you shake your
head, stepping forward with all of the boldness you can muster.
“I want to.” You assure him,
taking his good hand and squeezing it gently, “I don’t care about anyone else
noticing. Just you.”
He hesitates, then glances
sideways, at the door, “Can I kiss you?” He blurts, flushing red like an
• Gets down on one knee and holds your hand while he asks you out
• Him getting so excited that he cheers and kisses you over and over
• Swinging your arms when you guys hold hands
• Becoming friends w/ Kookie and Jimin
• Automatically given the right to call Jimin ‘ChimChim’
• Taking naps while snuggling
• Him making dumb faces to cheer you up when you’re sad
• Swooning whenever he’s got that god-forsaken bandana on and his forehead appears
• Him back hugging you and humming in his deep voice and you can feel the vibrations
• Taking photos w/ filters together
• Talking about smol baby children
• Telling people you have a 'Gucci Boyfriend’
• Him charming you with his bedroom eyes
• Making him sing in falsetto bc “SWEET JESUS, my boyfriend is so talented.”
• Calling each other and him yelling at everyone else bc they’re making obscene noises