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alieinthemorning · 4 months ago

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Acts of Service [Caleb]

Content: Self-Indulgent, Brown-Skinned Reader, Brown-Eyed Reader, Domestic Fluff, Confessions, Getting Together, Childhood Friends to Lovers, Soft Caleb, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert

Pronouns: She/Her

Important: Caleb is a childhood friend. Period. Anything outside of that makes me very uncomfortable, so I won’t be engaging nor do I want anyone who does engage with it anywhere near me or my works. In layman’s terms, keep that brother-fucker shit away from me.

Sequel: Acts of Passion [Caleb] [NSFW]

Reblogs: Let me know that you enjoy my work and want to see more, so don’t forget to like and reblog (and comment in the tags. I love seeing people’s rambles in the tags)!

This work’s concepts, plot and original characters are my own which means I do not allow any sort of creative theft nor do I allow my work to be entered into any sort of A.I. bots. Thank you for respecting my space and boundaries

Wanna support me? Here’s my Ko-Fi!

The second you are about to enter the shower, a presence makes itself known at your door. You sigh, heading to the door with an inkling of who it is.

“Hey, pip-squeak—woah!” Caleb’s cheerful greeting turns into a flustered one as he takes in your towel covered figure.

“Hurry up, you’re letting all the heat out.” You wave him in as you turn around. “You’re the one who interrupted me, so now you gotta wait.”

“I, uh…okay…” He shut the door behind him, lingering in the front hall.

And wait he did. You didn’t take too long, but you did take your time. Especially with moisturizing. You had to take extra precautions in this cold weather, after all. Least your brown skin end up ashy. You put on your coziest clothes, and a nice fragrance. Taking a swig of water to rehydrate, you take a moment to ponder. You need to wash your hair—that’s also on today’s to-do list, however, you really didn’t want to wash your hair now since the shower had tuckered you out immensely.

Oh, wait. There is someone who’s done it before in your house right now.

“Caleb!” You rush out your room, and burst into the living room. “Can you wash my hair?”

His face scrunches up for a moment before it relaxes into a grin. “You leave me here all by my lonesome for an hour, and now you wanna put me to work?” He chuckled as he stands. “Sure, I’ll do it.”

“Great! I’ll go get my stuff—can you rinse the sink out?”

“Already on it.”

Having Caleb wash your hair was nice. Not only because you don’t have to wash your hair yourself (hehe), but also because…it reminds you of the old days. He’s still as gentle as he was before, he still takes the time on your problem areas, and he makes sure the temperature is perfect before putting you back under the water.

You’re damn near asleep when he starts three-strand twisting your hair. The only thing keeping you awake is the chocolate that he had giving you—“as a friend”, he said.

��You know, it’s been a while since I’ve done this, but it doesn’t feel like we’ve missed a beat.” Caleb reminisces.

You smile. “Yeah, I was thinking the same thing earlier.” You yawn. “Even though my routine change a bit, you didn’t screw up.”

“Screw up?” He flicks the back of your neck. “I’m hurt that you think that I’d mess you up.”

The two of you share a laugh, and it’s nice. How long has it been since you’d been able to laugh like this? To be this close? To share in each other’s warm presences?

You yawn again as your bonnet is carefully put on. “So what now Did you have anything planned?”

“Nah, just wanted to come and visit”

You lean back into him, gazing up at his flushed face. “How about this: you go out and buy some stuff to stay the night and ingredients for dinner while I take a nap?”

“You’re havin’ me do all the work while you laze around yet again.” He shook his head without an inch of malice.

“Like you’d have it any other way.”

His smile becomes softer as he replies. “You’re right. I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He gently nudges you off him so he can stand. “So what do you want for dinner?”

“Surprise me.” You join him, stretching. “I’m putting all the work into planning this date, you can do a little something.”

You make your way to your bedroom, a skip in your step as you hear the tail end of his sentence that he murmurs under his breath.

“...she’s gonna be the end of me.”

Your nap came and went. You don’t know how much time passed, but it didn’t matter as you were woken up to the delicious smell of Caleb’s food. You were immediately able to pick out the fried chicken just from the smell.

“Oh, I’m bout to smack this back like a damn heart attack.” You say as you take your seat. You notice that the flowers that he had also brought are now being used as a centerpiece.

How romantic.

Caleb outright laughed, as he placed a few dumplings on your plate. “Where did that come from?”

“A friend.” You say through a mouthful of rice. “When she said that it really resonated with me.”

The meal is just like earlier when he was twisting your hair. It’s warm and inviting. It’s like meeting each other again without missing a beat. It’s familiar.

It’s…home.

He’s home.

You smile. “Welp, you’ve given me a wonderful Azure Echo’s Day—even though I was supposed to do all the work. So! I’ve got you on next time!” You wink at him.

His smile falters a bit. “Haha…you don’t gotta to…”

“I insist.” You push, “I mean, what kind of girlfriend would I be if I didn’t?”

This time the smile falls entirely. “Can you…not…do that?”

Your elbows hit the table, fingers lace together as you lean on your head on them. “Do you think I’m joking, Caleb?”

He looks away quietly.

“I’m being serious.” You sigh. “I’m not playing with your feelings. I know how you feel about me, and I know how you feel about you. And…” You pause, chewing your bottom lip for a moment before continuing. “...If we don’t cross the line now, we might not ever get the chance to again. We can’t keep being scared of destroying our peaceful friendship while being miserable because we never even tried to be more than that.”

He finally looks at you, and says your name ever so softly. His sugilite gaze is the same, and full of love. You wonder if your own brown one is reflecting the same.

“So?” A mischievous hint in your tone. “Are you gonna ask?”

“But you just said—”

“You should still ask me properly!”

His sighs through a smile before getting up and rounding the table. He pulls you up to join him, holding you close and asks:

“Will you be my girlfriend?”

Although the two of you did it a little backwards, February 14th marks the day that the two of you shared your first kiss as a couple.

THIS WAS WRITTEN FOR MEEEEE

ON AZURE ECHO'S DAY

DURING BLACK HISTORY MONTH

FOR MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Ko-Fi | Masterlist

#alie ficlets #alie ficlets: love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #lads x reader #caleb x reader #lads caleb x reader #brown skinned reader #brown eyed reader

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dingo-ate-my-hot-lettuce-crazy · 3 months ago

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Rearview - Chapter 6 - Still Here

Summary: You wake up in the hospital with Cas at your side, and Dean rushes in the find you. The two of you talk of 'unpinning' things.

Characters: Dean, Cas, others

Word Count: 5.1K

Warnings: medical inaccuracies, reader is always guilty for something smh, stressed out dean + cas, dr. Linda tran is badass, these warnings are a warning, trauma, denial of bad habits, cursing, I DONT EVER PROOFREAD

Author's Note: did you know im criminally insane

Songs: Break by Alex_g_offline, Thank You by Led Zeppelin

Series Masterlist - Chapter 7

You still have the goddamn headache when you wake up.

Even through your slightly squinted view, the curtained corner of the triage room was still a bit bright, and all too sterile for your senses. There’s an itch where the I.V. drip is inserted in your wrist. The tang from the disinfectant is overwhelming and has been worsening the dull throb in your head. Your whole body feels weighted down, but you’re sure you don’t want to stand up anytime soon. Selfishly, this is the only rest you’ve gotten in about a month, and for once, you push the rest of the anxiety of the hospital bill, and time off from work and school, to the back of your mind.

The room is smaller than you would think, but then again, they’ve stationed wheeled machines on the left and right of the bed. The three walls around you are painted a frosted mint color, and the accompanying curtain that acts as a fourth wall in front of you is a sickening yellowed khaki, reminding you of stains you’ve seen in old carpet. There isn’t much noise besides the residual beeping of your now-steady heartbeat and your soft breathing. Occasional footsteps of nurses breezing past your room sounded, and quiet murmuring of doctors and patients.

The I.V. itches.

You drag your right hand to your forearm, scratching just above the puncture site before a hand lightly smacks it away.

“Stop that.” Cas scolds flatly.

Sighing, you bring your worn-out gaze to him, sitting directly next to the bed in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs. Cas doesn’t look at you as he hunches over, his elbows resting on his knees. He looks tired too, and though you initially look to glare at his chiding, the same, old familiar guilt starts to sink in– he stayed. After his fuming lecture about your lack of self-care, he still bothered to stay with you as the ambulance brought you to the hospital. You didn’t deserve him. Not after your attitude toward him recently. Your eyes soften instead as you watch him for a couple of seconds.

“You had work.” You frown, saying it like you weren’t also working at the same time.

Cas deadpans, still not turning to you, “I wanted to be here to be the one to say, ‘I told you so’.”

You huff a bit of laughter at that, quirking up a brow at his remark, before exhaling deeply, as if the guilt would leave with your breath. “Yeah…yeah, I deserve that.”

Despite his reigned anger, he does move his head to you, looking over your face like he’s still trying to find something wrong. He’s still concerned but attempts to remain neutral.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m fi–”

“Try again.”

You huff, mouth still open from your answer as you hold back the rest of that statement- embellishment, rather. It honestly is a force of habit at this point, and Cas probably knows that by now, too. But, he’s right. It’s obvious that he values the truth in your wellness more than your care about “burdening” him with it.

“My head hurts and I’m tired, but I feel better.” You acquiesce with a slight jut of your head for emphasis.

“Well, I would hope so. You passed out in the middle of the kitchen.” Cas mutters your name, stressing the situation.

“Oh, fuck. Was Roy mad that you left?” You wince as you ask, hoping that Cas still has a job after your fuck-up.

“Roy insisted I go with you– he wanted someone to update the team on your condition. He took care of our tables, and said he would have the other servers run food or cash them out.” Cas explains, reassuringly.

You close your eyes in realization, sinking back into the uncomfortably firm pillow they set behind you as the memories come flooding back to you, “My tables– your tables…”

Cas scoffs, shaking his head with incredulity, “Do you ever think about yourself?”

You don’t answer him as you turn to him with apologetic doe-eyes, brows lowering with guilt, “I’m sorry.”

His face gentles, and lacks the frustrated worry it had before, “I don’t need an apology. I just need you to care for yourself.”

“Still,” you grimace at your shameful behavior as of late towards him, when all he did was care, “You didn’t deserve me fighting you. I just… I’m so tired of being treated like I can’t handle–” Your words cut off, trying to find the words, or maybe just the word, for the scenario. It’s hard, and you’re unsure if you’d be able to finish the thought even with a clear head.

“I get it, but you don’t need to handle this on your own. Nobody should handle this on their own. With what’s going on? What you’re going through?” Cas’ face tightens with sympathy.

With what’s going on.

With what you’re going through.

Nick– the text.

Your phone.

You hardly acknowledge the increasing rate of beeping from one of the machines you're connected to. Your face blanches as you remember what landed you hear in the first place.

Cas’ eyes dart to the heart rate monitor as he hears it pick up, and he looks worriedly between you and the machine, “What?”

“Cas, I need my phone.”

His face scrunches with troubled perplexity, “What?”

The curtain is roughly pulled back, and the minimal privacy between you and the ER dissipates as a wide-eyed Dean finds your face.

“Hey,” Dean breathed. His voice is quiet, mixed with anxiousness and relief all in one, but his eyes restlessly rake all over your form on the bed, trying to find the source of injury or ailment or reason you’re here.

“Hey… Dean?” you blink, mouth agape. How, why–

You didn’t even have time to think before Dean strides over to the opposite side of the bed where there’s space, and he pants, out of breath like he had run here, “You alright? What the hell happened?”

“She fainted,” Cas answers bitterly.

You whine, “Cas–”

“You fainted?” Dean repeats alarmed, his glance bounces between you and Cas- for some kind of explanation.

“She’s been overworking herself–” Cas continues, ignoring your protest.

“Cas–”

“And she hasn’t been sleeping or eating properly. And she’s severely stressed.”

“Cas, I am right here.”

Cas directs his gaze to you, with a pointed expression as enunciates with frustration, “You don’t admit to the complete truth.”

Dean disgruntledly snorts with apparent agreement, turning to you with a look almost like betrayal, now with concern more than panic.

“This have anything to do with the whole dizzy spell you had last night when I dropped you off?” Dean accusingly points his finger at your sickly form.

Now it’s Cas’ turn.

He whips his head to you with a set jaw, your name scoldingly leaving his lips once more at your refusal to tell anyone anything.

“Oh my God,” you groan petulantly, staring up at the ceiling in a silent plea.

“Everything alright, ma’am?”

All three heads turn back to the half-opened curtain when a shorter woman in a white coat steps through wearily to the foot of the bed, eyeing the boys with a narrowed gaze. She was smaller than them for sure, but she radiated a kind of assertiveness. Her thin black hair accentuates her sharp features on her face, toughening her exterior slightly. Her name tag on the pocket of her breast pocket reads “Dr. Tran”.

“Oh, yeah- everything’s fine.” You try diffusing the stressful air that seems to linger in the room.

She looks at you with care and concern, though the boys get a side-eye still, and it almost makes you laugh. Though you didn’t…it might’ve been inappropriate timing.

“Okay, well, my name is Dr. Tran, and I wanted to tell you the results of the tests that we ran,” she warmly introduces herself as she brings up the clipboard that’s been at her side, “Obviously, we’ve ruled out major diagnoses from the blood test. You did come in fairly dehydrated, so we’ve got you on a drip here, along with a cocktail of some vitamins and minerals for you. Your white and red blood cell count is relatively normal, but we’ve noticed some minor deficiencies due to possible malnutrition." The doctor refers to the chart, dragging along her pen on to each level she reads, "Sodium, potassium, iron are all dipping on the lower end of the scale along with electrolytes and blood sugar. These mainly tell us that your diet needs to be changed. If you don't mind, what do you normally eat in a day?”

You swallow nervously. You don’t even remember the last thing you ate.

Dr. Tran looks up expectantly, and at your hesitation, softly requests, “Forgive me for asking so bluntly, but is there any history of an eating disorder that we should be aware of?”

You shake your head vigorously with defense, “N-No, I’m not– it’s not that. I just,” you sigh shamefully, “I go to class and work and, honestly, it just slips my mind most days and I forget, and I should know better.”

The shame in your voice seems to shut down that train of thought for Dr. Tran, and she nods expressionlessly, possibly holding back her judgment, “Your deficiencies aren’t at a severe low yet, but that doesn’t mean they won’t be if this habit continues. You need to be eating meals with 500-700 calories, or get back to a daily count of around 2000– more if you are physically active.”

“We’ll make sure she eats,” Dean crosses his arms, determination set on his face. Cas nods to Dr. Tran as well.

She seems to lighten her gaze slightly at them, “Well, that’s what I like to hear. Now, as far as the other tests we’ve run, the EKG came back with no heart irregularities aside from your heart rate itself. It’s about 10-15 beats per minute faster than it should be. Your friend, Mr. Novak, here–” she glances at him with acknowledgment, “told me you have inconsistent sleeping patterns, and that you are dealing with severe stress almost daily, and possible panic attacks. Is that correct?”

Dean’s eyes feel heavy as they meet yours for a second before you look away.

Your gaze falls to the bed, avoiding eye contact from everyone in the room. You bite your cheek, feeling your face grow warm, and answer her with a reluctant huff, “Yeah, kinda.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Dr. Tran said, and you believe her sincerity, “That being said, based on all the test results and what Mr. Novak described before you lost consciousness, we are confident this was caused by a combination of your exhaustion, stress, and anxiety—what we would classify as an episode related to Acute Stress Disorder. We've even gotten a second-opinion from our psychologist on hand, who normally does the evaluations. It’s not uncommon, considering you are under a significant amount of stress, not sleeping well, and not eating enough. Your body essentially decided to do a whole system reboot, like when a computer crashes from too many tabs open.”

You scoff, and you’re not even sure at what. The diagnosis, the doctor, yourself. It seems like such a mockery. That you really couldn’t do all this yourself. That you weren’t strong enough. That Nick is still somehow getting the better of you after all this.

“Okay, so– so, what does that mean? We can get her back home today, and she’ll be okay?” Dean anxiousness gets the better of him, and he brings his thumbnail to his lip, absent-mindedly fidgeting as he stands next to your bed.

Dr. Tran inhales, considering the question, “Most likely, yes. We want you to stay for a little while, just to be sure there aren’t any more episodes, but you will be able to go home tonight. As far as your health–” she gives you a more stern look, “pay attention to your body. If you feel dizzy, sit down. If you’re tired, rest. If you have a headache, eat. Drink plenty of water. Your body needs to relax, and so does your head. The stress can be the biggest factor and if not taken care of, can lead to other problems.”

Cas moves to stand up, pushing off of his knees, “Everything is manageable except the stress. She’s prone to it.”

Your glare slightly at Cas.

Dr. Tran speaks up, “We already have a psychiatrist referral for you once you check out today, as well as two medications. We’re going to give you Ativan tablets for the next three days on a low dosage– around 0.5mg– which will help with panic attacks or sleep. Don’t take it unless you have to, and no more than twice a day. If you need to, you should take it an hour before you plan to go to sleep or if you experience heavy stress or panic. We’re also prescribing you two month’s supply of Zoloft– which is an anti-anxiety and an antidepressant. Take it in the morning right after you eat breakfast. We, the hospital, can’t renew prescriptions once you’re out but we can give the psychiatrist we referred your information, and they can discuss further options if you find that it’s working for you.”

You weren’t going to see a psychiatrist. You didn’t even know if you were going to take the medication. What if it hinders your ability to keep an eye out for the Challenger? Your ability to stay sharp? The whole idea of taking it is to make sure you’re dopey and unaware of your surroundings.

Stewing in your own thoughts and silence, Cas speaks up for you, “Thank you, Dr. Tran.”

“Of course, let me know if there’s anything you need. You boys are welcome to stay if you don’t cause my patient any stress.” She warns thoughtfully, giving the boys a hard stare.

“Yes, ma’am.” They both say in unison.

Dr. Tran nods approvingly, then looks back to you, “Let me know if they give you any trouble and I’ll get them out.”

You smile half-heartedly at that, but it fades quickly after you quietly reply, “They can stay.”

The doctor gives a courteous nod before allowing the three of you your privacy again. Emotional silence consumes the room at the clinking of the curtain being slid closed. Just the whirring of the machines is heard as the information soaks in– to everyone.

Dean’s gaze is on you, and you can see him look at you a few times in your peripheral vision as your eyes travel around the room in thought. You clear your throat some.

“Cas, uh, you mind giving us a minute?”

You can see Cas sensing the tension between you and Dean, and nods understandingly, taking a couple of steps to the small gap between the curtain and the wall.

“Sure. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Cas–” You call out before he’s out of sight completely.

He halts, looking at you as he holds the curtain open.

You give him a pained, tight-lipped smile laced with guilt, but overwhelmingly more appreciative, “Thank you,” your voice barely above a whisper, the emotion so thick that you could crack at any moment, “For being here. And for caring enough to get angry at me, and giving it to me straight, even if I didn’t want it.”

Cas scoffs, though he replies with a lopsided grin, “Of course.” And he steps out.

And now to handle this situation.

You risk a glance at Dean, who hasn’t made any effort to move to the chair. He stands with his fingers rubbing gently at his forehead, before raking them through his prince-charming-like-mane. His expression is rather blank, but the slight crinkle in his brow gives him away, and you feel awful.

Inhaling, you ask gently, easing into it, “Did Cas call you?”

Dean runs his lip between his teeth before answering curtly, his hand moving to hips “Yeah.”

He starts to pace you notice, walking along from one side of the curtain to the other. The hand that just swept through his hair meets his chin now. He fidgets a lot when he’s stressed, you notice.

You can’t help but wonder if he’s over your bullshit. If this is the last straw, and he’s working his way to tell you that he’s through with this–that he’s done. Hell, you’re not even official yet and he’s already here to see you at the hospital, somewhere after eleven o’clock at night, when he could be sleeping, or out with another girl who would’ve probably got him laid by now. You don’t think you would even question if he would leave, you don’t even understand why he stays.

You take a deep breath in, “Dean…” Your voice is weak, slightly strained with emotion. You clear your throat. “I’m—I’m so sorry you had to come all the way out here this late.”

Dean stops pacing. His head tilts slightly like he can’t believe what he just heard. Then, with a sharp breath, he mutters your name into his hands and drags them down his face before turning toward you, his voice raw with frustration.

“I don’t give a damn about that,” he says, words low but firm. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

There’s an edge to his voice, barely reining in his frustration. Something ignites behind his eyes—something sharp and scared and just barely contained.

Something twists deep in your gut.

But Dean’s not done.

“I mean,” he scoffs, shaking his head, “I get skipping a meal every now and then. I get forgetting to drink enough water. It’s not good, but it happens. But this?” His gaze flickers over the drip in your arm, the heart monitor beside you, the fresh hospital band around your wrist. His expression darkens but remains level still.

“You passed out. Your body shut down for a second.”

His voice drops lower, but there’s no mistaking the urgency in it. “What the hell is going on with you? Why won’t you tell me?”

Your throat tightens.

You attempt to keep your breathing steady, to keep the monitor beside you from reflecting the way your pulse wants to skyrocket. So much for Dr. Tran’s warning. “Dean, I can tell you,” you say carefully, “but I–.” You exhale shakily. “I figured it was easier to keep to myself. I didn’t want you to take it personally, I wasn’t talking to Cas about everything, and I hate talking about it, and every day it just seems to be getting worse and worse–”

Dean steps closer. “What’s getting worse?”

You shake your head. Unsure. Afraid.

Dean’s voice is quieter this time, yet somehow stronger. “What’s getting worse?”

The words come out before you can stop them.

“I’m giving you an out.”

Dean freezes.

His brows pull together, the frustration flickering into something else. “What?”

You can hardly bring yourself to look at him when your chest feels like it’s caving in. “I’m giving you an out,” you echo, voice barely above a whisper. “You can walk away, and I wouldn’t blame you. I get it. You don’t need this, Dean. You don’t need someone who’s barely got their shit together, who’s got so much fucking baggage—” The words leave your mouth like they cause you physical pain.

And Dean looks like the words hit him just as hard, like you just knocked the wind out of him.

Then, slowly, he shakes his head. “That what you think?” His voice is rough, unreadable.

Your misty eyes fall on him again. Unanswering.

He looks at you, hurt in his gaze. “You want me to leave?”

You force yourself to speak. “No.”

Dean exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head again. His voice rises, “Then stop trying to push me out.”

You close your eyes, trying to keep yourself together. You kick yourself because you know you’re pushing him out, and dammit you don’t want to.

You hear him say exasperatedly, “You don’t think I have baggage?”

You hold your eyelids down tightly, not squeezing them, but with enough pressure to know that a tear isn’t going to escape just yet. Those words, his words… they makes you stop.

Dean does have baggage. His mom died when he was four years old. His deadbeat father is pressuring him into giving up the rest of his career–his life– to his mechanic shop, because he wouldn’t. He’s practically guilted into it. And Dean doesn’t need to tell you all that. You can see it in the way he tells you that he feels he “owes” it to his father, even when Dean was the one who grew up too fast– when he was the emotional scapegoat of his broken family. Because he had to take care of Sammy, and his dad. You can read it plainly off his face that he feels like he has a priceless debt to pay.

And hell, you watched him talk about Lisa. You can’t assume as much there, but you know it’s affected him. He didn’t bring her up in a positive context.

And still, with all the trouble, he stands in front of you.

The lump in your throat doesn’t move, but only seems to grow.

You don’t know what to do. You don’t know what to do with the way he looks at you like he gives a damn, with the way his voice is just a little too raw, his fidgeting a little too restless. The way his anger is born out of concern, not the hate you were used to.

The way he hadn’t even made a step closer to exit through the curtain, only taking steps to you.

The devil on your shoulder tells you that he should leave– for his own good. Or that you should leave him.

But he is still here. Waiting for you.

And damn it, you need this to work.

When you open your eyes again, you breathe out, “The pin.”

“What?”

“We put a pin in it,” you murmur. “I’m unpinning some of it. I can’t here, but…”

Dean watches you, piecing it together.

“Your ex.” He says, certain, and his expression morphs into something softer.

Your lips pressed together as you nod.

And he nods. “Okay.”

It’s irrational– you know it is– but even just the thought of being in the passenger seat again makes your stomach drop.

Dean’s voice is already softer as he steps into your field of vision, “Sweetheart, you’re not walking.”

Your pulse skyrockets beneath your ribcage. You sink the heels of your palms into your eyes, bringing your head down as your elbows sit on your knees.

Cas steps closer behind you, closer to the front of the bed as you’ve fully sat up at the edge. “Dean’s driven me plenty of times—safely, might I add.” His attempt at lightness is met with a wavering breath, which was supposed to be a scoff.

Dean nods, bringing himself closer to where you sit, so he can slightly kneel in front of you, so he’s at your level, pulling at your hands so he can find your eyes, as he soothes, “Listen, sweetheart. I’m gonna drive under the speed limit. I’ll take back roads— the least busiest roads I know. And if you want me to pull over for a break, I will.”

Dr. Tran watches the interaction, and gently adds, “You can go ahead and take the Ativan now. It’ll help take the edge off, and you won’t feel as anxious during the ride. It doesn’t take too long to kick in.”

Hesitation claws at your ribs as you try to form words. It’s not a no, but you don’t know how to give an okay.

“Dean,” a weak beg leaves your lips, your glistening eyes pleading at him.

You can almost see Dean’s heart break for you, and he carefully holds your wrists in his hands, tenderly grazing his thumb across them, and his voice somehow gets softer as his eyes lock onto yours. “I promise you, you’ll be safe.”

Cas presses the bottle into your hand, and you turn your head to it, your face is the picture of absolute dread. You huff defeatedly, trying to stare it out of existence, but your arm betrays you and tugs loosely from Dean’s hand.

It was decided that Dean would have you wait for the Ativan to fully kick in, so he opted to drive Cas back to Silver & Flames, where he left his car so he could join you in the ambulance (where he gave the EMTs a hard time about it to the point where they had told him that he could ride with, so long as he was out of the way).

You hate to admit it but you did feel the Ativan taking the initial edge off by the time Dean had returned to the hospital, though it is not gone. Just dulled– like the panic has been wrapped in cotton, just enough so that you were taking controlled, even breaths with minimal struggle.

Dean parks a short distance into the lot, which makes you take very short strides.

The hospital sign buzzes as you walk under it, following Dean with a bit of sluggishness.

Dean perks up from in front of you, turning his head back, waiting in his steps so you can catch up with him. His shoulder brushes yours, and he moves his right hand to the small of your back– not pushing you, just guiding you.

“I know it’s not ideal, but you do get to meet my Baby. You two will get along great, I promise.” He encouragingly smirks down at you.

You lean into his hand that rests on your back, as your lips barely twitch up in acknowledgment, though it’s not exactly comforting at this moment.

Though, you know his car the moment you see it.

It’s just as he said it was– the black 1967 Chevrolet Impala.

If you hadn’t known you would be riding in the passenger seat in the car or drugged out on anti-anxiety meds, you can confidently say you would’ve gawked.

Dean keeps walking with you even as your steps slow until you stop a couple of feet away from the passenger side. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”

You take slightly heavier breaths.

You can hear him mutter your name, trying to pull you from your muddled thoughts.

“I can’t.” You swallow, backing away slightly, turning away from the car as the panic tries to dig its way out of the cotton.

“Yes, you can, sweetheart. Come here,” Dean lightly grasps your forearms as they find your middle, and pulls them back to your sides. “I’m one of the safest damn drivers you will ever meet. You think I would do anything to jeopardize your safety? Hell, or even my car?”

You shake your head, frustrated with yourself at this point, “I don’t distrust you. It’s just, I know it’s stupid–”

Dean cuts you off, “Hey, it’s not stupid if you’re bent outta shape from it. Okay? Listen, I’m gonna hug one lane the whole time and take easy streets, and we’ll be at my place in no time. I live less than ten minutes from here.”

Dean’s hands let go of your forearms as he reaches over to the passenger, opening the door for you with a reassuring smile. He walks back out from behind it as you wearily watch him, and he extends his hand to you to gently pull you closer to him– not the car. His hand is comforting to be in, calloused but warm and inviting as he gives yours a light squeeze. He doesn’t let go, even as he backs himself and you into the side of the open car. He lets you get in on your own time, and he makes sure you’re buckled in before he closes your door and rounds the car to the driver’s side.

The drive is slow, just like he promised. It’s inevitable for the city traffic to quiet or dull, but Dean finds alternative routes that you didn’t even know existed, and you begin to ease into the ride. There’s a low hum of classic rock playing through the speakers, it sounds like Led Zeppelin, and you focus on that for a while.

Dean focuses on driving. He catches you in his view when he yields to the right or makes a turn, but he lets you sit, lets you breathe.

By the time he pulls up outside his apartment complex, you aren’t exactly sure how long it’s been. Dean said it was a ten-minute drive but you would’ve also bought if he said it’s been an hour. The exhaustion is creeping up on you as the effects of the medication linger.

You miss Dean’s proud smile at you when he gets out of the car first, rounding Baby so he can reach for the handle.

“Dean, I can—”

“I want to,” his voice is distant, muffled as the door still separates you, and he cuts off whatever protest you were saying with his signature smirk.

He offers a hand to you as he opens the door for you to step out of the car, a little disoriented, but the kiss that lands on the crown of your head grounds you. Steadies you.

His complex doesn’t have a lobby like yours, so there are two flights of stairs that seem to drag on forever or get longer, and steeper. Dean stays behind you the whole time, not yet having to push you forward, but his arm hovers a couple of times.

His apartment is nothing less than what you expect. It’s not exactly lively with decoration and color, but his living room furniture matches and actually compliments his space rather well. And you gotta give him credit where it’s due– he has a coffee table in front of the sofa and a painting hanging above the TV.

The plus is that it’s a one-bedroom. He gets it all to himself.

“I figure I’ll give you a grand tour when you’re better rested, but it ain’t too much.” Dean steps in behind you after locking the door, watching you, making sure you don’t break in front of him.

And you don’t. You turn around to him with a small grin, “You don’t have to worry about me. If you have a bed or couch, that’s perfect.”

Dean flashes his teeth slightly in amusement, and looks to you warmly, “I’ll take the couch.”

Your brows furrow as you look at him, “Why would you take the couch in your own apartment?”

“Because. At La Casa de Dean, women who come home from the hospital get the most comfortable sleeping arrangements.” Dean’s intonation firms slightly, but his face remains gentle and playful.

After a moment, you meet his eyes again, “You can stay. With me then.”

He takes a moment to really read your face, checking to make sure it wasn’t guilt, but rather a want for him to stay near. “You sure?”

You nod, “Yeah, I am,” you look down as you let out a deep exhale, “We can unpin… everything tomorrow if that’s okay. I’m not trying to keep anything from you but, the Ativan is just–”

Dean purses his lips as he shakes his head, “No– I want you to get your rest first. Absolutely.”

For the first time tonight, you feel a true sense of relief. It breeds the grateful smile on your face, and you lean into Dean. A hand meets the back of your head, and you feel a little safer again.

A/N: ngl its four am im eepy

taglist: @suckitands33 @globetrotter28 @supernotnatural2005 @star-yawnznn

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