Title: Those Days: Part 1
Length: 2670 words
Warnings: none - it's a just angsty and fluffy
Synopsis: Reader is missing an ex, Dean's being a brat.
A/N: Part 1 of 2. Part 2 will be from Dean's point of view. Relatively new to this, please be nice! Thanks for reading!
You both had those days. The days that you were just moody and quiet. Usually yours were triggered by a glimpse of an old photo or finding an old plaid shirt when you were digging through the trunk at the foot of your bed. Just that glimpse or soft fabric brushing your fingers was sometimes enough to send you pulling inward for a few days, thinking about what might have been, could have been, mourning another life you might have had if not for life getting in the way. When these funks grabbed a hold of you, you always tried to put your energy into not being a downer and training. You'd run for miles on the gravel roads around the bunker for days, until your legs were jelly and feet blistered and your mind finally cleared.
Dean had those days too. You never could tell what would bring on his, but he'd come out to the kitchen in the morning every so often, quiet and reserved, not speaking just shuffling over to the coffee pot. He'd fill his mug and sit down in the living room and almost just stare at the wall, eyes dull and uninterested. Almost catatonic with the exception of his arm lifting his coffee to his lips. Once the mug was empty, he'd disappear into the training room for hours, exhausting himself for days on end until the morning he came out of his room full of smiles like usual.
Thankfully these times didn't come often for either of you, but unfortunately, this morning it seemed you both were in a mood. You'd woken up this morning and started looking for some forgotten knife that had markings on it Sammy wanted to look at. Digging through piles of crap that always seemed to build up in your trunk, you came across a small flat bundle wrapped in brown paper tied with a string. You knew exactly what it was. You'd put it there last time, hoping you'd have the courage to throw it out or that at least the brown paper would be some sort of barrier protecting you from the memories the items brought back. But it didn't work. You moved off your knees to sit on the floor next to the trunk, the bundle in your lap. The paper crinkled as you ran your hands over it, smoothing the wrinkles and wondering if you should open it. Your hands made the decision for you and quickly the bow was undone allowing the paper to fall away.
Inside was the folded plaid flannel shirt that still faintly smelled of him when you held it to your face and breathed in deeply. It was like burying your head in his shoulder used to be. The shirt crinkled and you remembered that you had tucked the picture inside the folds of the shirt. Carefully you shook it out and picked it up off the floor. It was one of only a few photos that were ever taken of the two of you. It was taken hours before you were separated for good and the anguish of leaving each other was etched in both your eyes. His eyes seemed to ached as much as your heart still did. You ran your finger over his face in the photo and tried to hold back the rushing emotions. This was no good. It didn't matter. He was gone. Long gone. Had been gone over a year - you hadn't heard anything in at least that long.
You quickly forgot the search for the knife and pulled off the shirt you were wearing to switch to the soft flannel. You ran your hands over it one more time before standing up, placing the photograph carefully back in the trunk on top of the jumble of crap, and locked it shut. You decided no contacts today as you knew now it was going to be one of those days. Those days your heart ached all the way to your toes and tears would be close as long as you were awake. You found your glasses and perched them on your face before deciding you could handle the kitchen.
As you filled your mug with steaming coffee Sam had been kind enough (and awake enough) to make, you heard shuffling behind you, ever on alert thanks to living and working with hunters, you spun but saw it was just Dean. Dean in a mood. His mouth was drawn, lips thin and in a flat line. His eyes held no sparkle and just looked hard. You silently handed him a cup and headed to the living room. Sammy looked up with a smile, but when he caught sight of the two of you, it fell. He knew enough to allow you both to be in your quiet. If he didn't, fights were bound to erupt. It was just supposed to be a quiet research day anyway, so it became a silent agreement that everyone would mind their business and leave the others alone.
You finished your coffee faster than usual, enjoying the burn across your tongue and down your throat. You went back to your room to change from shorts into black running tights and running shoes. Once you made your way up the stairs to the main door of the bunker, you pushed the heavy metal door open and were hit by a frozen blast of wind complete with sleet angled right at your eyes. No outdoor running for you today. You pulled the door closed and slammed the lock shut, frustrated. Your face turned hot and tears burned behind your eyes. All you wanted was a run. To feel pain that felt good instead of this painful ache you couldn't fix. Hoping Dead wouldn't be there yet, or had decided to do something else as a result of his bad attitude, you headed to the training room.
Finding the wrapping tape in the supply cupboard, you wrapped your hands to protect the knuckles from the punching bag and got ready to go to town. You were a few minutes in, just starting to sweat, when the bag stopped its swinging back and forth. You held your punches for a second to glance up. Dean stood there, one hand on each side of the bag, holding it steady for you. He'd changed into workout gear as well. His face was still hard, but he nodded to encourage you to continue. After you'd had your go, you traded places, you holding the bag steady as Dean punched the living crap out of the bag with precision you rarely saw. Once the bag was thoroughly beaten into submission by both of you and Dean dropped his hands out of his fighter's stance, chest heaving for breath, you let go of the bag and moved silently over to one of the treadmills. These were one of the few additions Sam and Dean had made to the training room. They were essential for stamina training when it wasn't safe outside or the weather was bad.
As you eased into your running rhythm, enjoying the pound of your feet, you saw Dean step up on the treadmill next to yours. He fell into a similar rhythm. Eyes forward, not looking at you, not talking, or otherwise bothering you. You just were together. As you ran, you tried to bring up the anger and run it out. You'd thought this guy was going to be it. The draw between the two of you had been intense. It smoldered under the surface and it seemed like you could read each other's minds. It burned hot but fast. He wasn't into hunting. He wanted more stability and you were looking for adventure. He turned you out one night with not much more of a "if life brings us together again, it will." You wanted to fight for it to work, but he didn't and just like that it was over. It hurt you both more than either would say, but that was that. You'd shown up after driving for over 15 hours at the bunker. You were hurting and looking for some sort of comfort from the only two other men in the world you trusted.
But when you'd walked in, Dean was already drunk. They'd had a hard but successful hunt and were celebrating. Dean had gotten slammed around and was nursing a few superficial wounds, which put him in a sour mood. It didn't improve any with your late night arrival and your tear-stained cheeks. You'd called ahead and they knew to expect you but didn't expect this. Sammy asked what was wrong and invited you to stay for a while. Once you started to get the story out, you started to feel better. The brothers understood having relationships fail and having to make hard decisions to leave loved ones behind. But Dean just got madder and madder. He'd met your now ex, and he couldn't help but give you his input. He'd liked the guy – even respected him, which didn't happen often.
After an hour or so, Dean's irritation erupted. "You weren't ever good enough for him, you know that right?" Dean practically spit at you, anger in his voice. "Not good enough. Why would he want to be with you. You really need to adjust your standards." His words had stung like nothing you'd ever felt before. You'd been friends for years and thought Dean had your back. Evidently not as much as you had thought. Sam tried to interject, but Dean just stormed out of the room. Sammy gave you a quick hug and told you just to ignore him. You ended up spending the rest of the night playing some quiet games before passing out - Sam in his room and you in your new room.
That had been two years ago and those words still stung just as much as missing your ex. Dean had never mentioned it again and you were too afraid to bring it up. So you ran till your sides ached and your legs were numb, Dean matching you as you heaved for breath. Weights came after the treadmill. You spotted each other silently, the only sounds breaking the silence grunting from a particularly difficult lift. Hours later, you were both worn out. Dean grabbed himself a towel and threw one to you as well. You went your separate ways, headed back to your room to shower and change. It probably hadn't been a great idea to work out in the hot flannel, but you loved how it felt and how it made you think your ex was right there with you.
You took it off, felt it one more time before shaking your head and throwing in the corner. You hopped in the shower, hot water soothing sore muscles and making you sigh. Steam soothed your hot skin and was comforting as you stood in the pelting water as your body cooled down from the intense work out. You'd been in there quite a while (Sam like to tease you that sometime your shower was going to completely run the bunker out of water). Towel wrapped around you, you stepped into your bedroom to grab some clean, non-sweaty clothes.
On top of your comforter was something folded with a piece of paper on it. You padded over to it, picked up the note, and read, "My flannel is better. Throw that tool's old shirt away, Y/N. ~Dean." You half smiled at Dean's attempt to make you feel better despite his crappy mood. You grabbed a bra and threw on his shirt over it. If he was going to try to mend this wound, you could at least accept the gesture. You had to roll up the sleeves quite a few times and it looked like a bit of a dress on you, but you weren't going to complain. It was warm, soft, and smelled faintly of Dean. Paired with leggings and boots, it actually wasn't bad.
You dug around in the trunk a little more, finally finding the missing knife you'd been looking for this morning. You grabbed it and once you were ready, you headed out to the living room. You could see Sammy in the kitchen starting an early dinner - you and Dean must have been training for hours. Your stomach grumbled right then to confirm what you thought. You walked into the kitchen and showed Sam the knife.
"Here it is, Sam. I think the markings might be something worth looking up. Maybe it has some powers; I found it in that abandoned house I cleared a few weeks ago." Your sentences were stinted, voice low, but it was something more than silence. Sam looked up at you and smiled a little.
"Thanks, Y/N. I'll take a look at it, could be interesting or useful. Never know." His gauged your mood for a few seconds, and then reached out with one arm. He half hugged you with the hand that wasn't gross from cutting up chicken for dinner. "You know I love you, right?" Sam asked as he squeezed you in.
You smiled ruefully at him, "Yeah, Sammy, I know. Love you too." You weren't one for shows of affection, but it meant a lot for Sam to reach out to you this way during one of your funks.
"Dinner will be ready in about an hour. You had a long work out. Go hang out until it's ready. I've got this," Sam told you, directing you out the kitchen door toward the living room.
You grabbed one of the books that was inevitably around on research days, figuring you could pick up some useful bit of information for later, and settled in the loveseat near the fireplace. Sam had made sure it was roaring on this chilly crappy day. The bunker was anything but warm and cozy but Sam did a lot to make it more like a home when he could. He liked to take care of his people and you sure appreciated it on days like this.
Minutes passed and you dozed off and on, lazily turning pages, until you heard a noise that wasn't the crackle of the fire. Dean was standing next to you, trying to quietly cover you with a blanket. You looked up and him and saw his eyes had warmed some. You moved your legs and motioned for him to sit down next to you. He fell into the seat beside you and covered you both with the blanket. You sat like that for a while, just being next to each other, Dean slouching into the seat, hair still wet and sipping on a beer while you absentmindedly flipped pages. You heard him shift and you looked up, his eyes catching yours. With the arm he had on the back of the love seat he motioned for you to move over closer to him. You hesitated and then figured it really couldn't hurt anything. You slid over and as you got close enough, Dean pulled you into his side. You seemed to melt in together. He sighed and ran a hand across your wet hair, sweeping it back from your face. You laid there for a few moments just enjoying the comfort of Dean, though still a bit weary.
He was quiet. You almost missed his words. "I'm sorry, Y/N. You're a good hunter, a better friend, and any guy should count himself lucky to have you." He leaned over a bit farther and kissed the side of your forehead before he rested his cheek on the top of your head. "You don't need that douchebag who was too stupid to see how great you are. He doesn't deserve you or for you to still be hurt." He pulled you closer and cuddled into you as the last of your anger and resentment melted away.
"Thanks, Dean." You didn't need to say more than that. He knew.