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Sorry for the wait, but this chapter is actually pretty long, so hopefully that will make up for it. Please enjoy!

The next time you wake, you feel a little better. The pain isn't too bad, and you feel less sticky and groggy than before. You slowly roll your head to the side, and you blink.

Dean's still there. You hadn't expected him to stay; you could fully understand him just wanting to go home. But no, there he is, still sitting in that hard plastic chair, bent over with his head resting on the bed near your hip.

You smile and just watch him a moment. You can't see his face because it's buried in his arms, but from the way his back is steadily rising and falling, he must be asleep. You wish you could see his face, though. You're curious to know how he looks when he's sleeping.

You wonder if Dean senses you watching him, because he suddenly sucks in a breath and starts to sit up. He doesn't look at you right away, taking a moment to stretch and rub his eyes.

When he does turn to look at you, he lights up. "Hey, Y/N, you're back!" He scoots closer. "How do you feel?"

You think about it a moment. "Not too bad, actually," you croak. Your throat feels dry and crackly, and you cough. "Water," you rasp.

In less than a second, Dean is holding a paper cup to your lips. You try to raise your right hand to take it—the left is bound in a sling—but it's so heavy and aches when you try to move it. You blush in embarrassment as Dean feeds you the water, but he doesn't seem to think anything of it, and for that, you're grateful.

You pull back once you've taken a few sips. "Thanks," you say as Dean puts it down on the table next to the bed. "How long have I been out?"

He thinks about it. "About twelve hours. I brought you in a little after eight last night. You woke up about an hour later for a few minutes, but other than that you've been out cold."

You groan and drop your head back on your pillow. "God, I'm supposed to be at work right now!"

"Not in this condition you're not," Dean says sternly. "I'm sure you can afford to miss a few days."

You sigh in frustration. "Well yeah, I guess I could, but I hate missing work."

He chuckles. "Don't worry about it, you'll be fine," he says, patting your uninjured arm. "Right now you just need to focus on relaxing and getting better. And don't hesitate to tell me if you need anything."

You're sort of taken aback by his complete sincerity in this whole situation. Not that you don't appreciate it, but you're not used to people you barely know being so utterly nice and kind to you, as if you were the closest of friends.

You cock your head and decide to voice this thought. "Why are you being so nice to me?" You ask.

Dean seems caught off guard. "What do you mean?"

You start to shrug but wince in pain. "It's just . . . you barely know me. We've met, what, twice? And I wasn't exactly conscious the second time."

"Well, I'm sure as hell not gonna just run off and leave you alone, with nobody to sit with you and make sure you're okay, at least until we can find a family member or something. Is there anyone I can call for you?"

You avert your gaze, chewing the inside of your cheek.

Dean frowns in concern. "What is it?"

You sigh. "I don't really have much in the way of family. Well, technically speaking I do, but we don't get along. My parents are disappointed because I chose a different career than them—they wanted me to work for the family business, the one my great-grandma built from the ground up. But my dream was always to become a (your career choice). I have a sister, but we haven't talked in a long time. She's the CEO now. Just what my parents wanted. And she doesn't understand why I wouldn't follow their wishes." You let out a dry laugh. "I'm the family disappointment."

Dean huffs wryly. "I kinda know what that's like. Well, my brother more than me, but still."

"How so?"

He wets his lips before answering. "Our dad always wanted us to join the military like him, and when our mom died he went a little crazy with it. Ever since I was four years old and as soon as Sammy—my brother—could walk, our dad was training us to be soldiers. He even kept moving us around all the time. We never stayed in one place for more than a few months. It definitely wasn't the best way to raise kids, and Sam especially was miserable."

"God, that sucks," you say sincerely. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." The corner of his mouth curls up in a fond smile. "Sam was the one who finally had the guts to bust out. He'd secretly applied to Stanford University. The kid is smart as hell, so it really wasn't a surprise when he earned a full ride."

The sheer amount of pride and fondness in Dean's voice brings a huge smile to your face—well, it would have if your lip wasn't so painful and swollen, so you have to settle for a smaller one.

"When he told Dad about it . . ." He cringes. "It wasn't pretty. Dad told him that if he left, he better never come back."

You stare at him in horror. "That's awful!"

Dean shrugs, as if trying to convince you that it isn't a big deal—but his eyes say otherwise. "Sam left anyway. And right then and there, I packed my bags too and went with him. Sammy has always been my responsibility, and no matter how much my dad yelled at me, no matter how much he said he hated us for abandoning him, there was no way in hell that I was gonna let Sam go through that alone."

You beam at him. "That's so sweet!"

He blushes and laughs a little in embarrassment. "Am not."

"Yes, you are. You also giggle like a little girl and it's adorable."

He turns even redder and pretends to glare, but you can see the rather poorly hidden grin behind it. "Shut up."

You snort, but have to hunch over and wrap an arm around your broken ribs. "Ow," you say, but still smiling, "Don't make me laugh!"

"Oh shit, sorry," he chuckles, laying a hand on your shoulder.

"Y/N!"

You turn your head towards the unexpected voice, and the smile on your face instantly vanishes.

Brandon, your very recent ex, is standing in the doorway.

He rushes inside, looking strickened. "Y/N! Oh, god, what happened? Are you okay?"

You glare at him. "Brandon, what are you doing here?"

"I came as soon as I heard," he explains. "I . . . I know you don't believe me, but I still love you. I just—I'm so sorry about what happened, it was an accident, I swear!"

Your eyebrows almost fly off of your forehead, they shoot up so fast. "An accident?!" You all but shriek. "A motherfucking accident?! Do you honestly think I'm that goddamn stupid?!"

Dean has turned to look at Brandon, and he remembers what you told him yesterday at the diner, about how your boyfriend cheated on you. He's now staring at your ex with an expression of unadulterated disgust.

You're still yelling at Brandon, even though it's hell on your broken ribs and busted lip. "So what, you just happened to trip and fall into her mouth? In my fucking bed?!"

"I-I know, I'm sorry!" He pleads. "Just please, give me another chance!"

"NO!"

When Brandon tries to come closer, reaching out to touch you, Dean leaps to his feet and puts himself between the two of you.

"She said no," Dean said lowly. "And I think it's time for you to leave."

Brandon instantly goes from sorry and desperate to cold and angry. He glares at Dean, and then looks over Dean's shoulder at you. "Who the fuck is this?" he demands.

"Someone who actually respects Y/N and cares for her well-being," Dean snarls, moving over so that Brandon can't look at you again.

"Fuck you, man!" Brandon spits, stepping forward to get into Dean's face. But Dean doesn't seem at all intimidated. He stands his ground, glaring right back at Brandon, and you're afraid that fists will start flying.

A few nurses walking by in the hall have started stopping outside the door, looking nervous. One of them finally speaks up. "Um, excuse me—is everything alright in here?"

You can't see Dean's face with his back turned, but he's pulling a very sarcastic smile at the nurse over Brandon's shoulder. "Everything is fine," he says. "He was just leaving." Dean turns cold eyes back to Brandon with a pointed look. Your ex glares right back for a good two or three tense seconds before begrudgingly stepping back. He walks to the door, but stops and turns to look back at Dean with murder in his eyes. "This isn't over," he growls lowly. You feel a flash of fear as he finally walks out the door and out of sight.

The nurses leave and Dean comes back to sit next to you. He sees the fear in your eyes and takes your hand. "It's okay," he says quietly. "I'm not gonna let him hurt you."

You squeeze his hand. "It's not me I'm worried about."

He smiles reassuringly. "Hey, my dad might've been an ass, but hell if he didn't teach me how to defend myself. I'll be okay."

"Are you sure?" You ask, still worried but rapidly tiring out after all that yelling. Your head is suddenly very heavy and you let it drop to the pillow.

"I'm sure. Now go to sleep, I'll be right here when you wake up."

"Don't have to," you mumble, your eyes closing. "Don't want to burden you. You can go home if you want."

You feel rough fingers brushing your hair back, but you don't have to energy to open your eyes anymore. "I'm not going anywhere," he tells you quietly.

And that warms your heart to a ridiculous degree, and it skips a beat as you drift off to sleep.


The next couple of days pass quietly. A police officer comes to take your statement and file a report, the doctors are nice enough and good at their job, and you're beginning to heal at a fair rate. The pain is still a problem at times, but they provide you with enough painkillers to help without turning you into an addicted vegetable.

It also turns out that Dean had called Sam the night he brought you to the hospital, and Sam had gone back to the scene of your mugging and collected your things, since Dean had been focused on getting you help at the time. He actually comes in right after the police officer leaves, flashing you a sweet smile and setting your purse on the bedside table. He stays for a while, and the three of you just talk a while as you get to know the brothers and they get to know you. You thoroughly enjoy their company, and when you begin to fall asleep again—you hate how easily you tire out now—he politely excuses himself with a sincere smile and a friendly squeeze to your shoulder.

Dean, however, rarely leaves your side. Apparently he owns and operates his own auto repair shop (Winchester's Garage), so he can pretty much take off whenever he wants. At first you feel guilty, because you think he's only staying out of a sense of obligation. But every time you try to tell him that he doesn't have to stay, he insists that it's no trouble. You finally begin to realize that, maybe he's not staying out of obligation, but because he truly wants too.

When you reach this silent realization, you find yourself grinning like an idiot. Good Lord, what is it about this man that can turn me into a twelve-year-old girl?

Dean notices your giddy demeanor and grins. "What are you so excited about?"

"Oh—oh, um, I'm just glad I get to go home today. I've had enough of hospitals by now." You slide out of bed, landing on (thankfully) steady feet. Dean hands you a folded pair of scrubs one of the nurses was kind enough to give you, since the clothes you arrived in are still bloodstained. You could have sent Dean to your house to get fresh clothes—but you weren't sure you trusted him that much just yet.

You do, however, trust him to drive you home, and after wheeling you out of the hospital, he helps you out of the wheelchair and into his car. You give him directions and the two of you continue to chat on the way. You've found that Dean is extremely easy to talk to. He's so polite and friendly that it's almost unreal, and you sincerely hope that the two of you will remain in contact and become good friends.

And maybe more? A small part of you thinks, and your heart skips at the possibility.

But the other part of you has to remind you to think rationally. You did just break up with someone, and plus, it was probably only natural that you'd feel an attraction to the man who saved your life. And besides, he doesn't really seem like he likes you in that way. So far he's treated you as a friend, and nothing more.

You try to ignore the twinge of disappointment.

Dean pulls up in into your driveway, parks and cuts the engine. "You gonna be okay on your own?" He asks.

You take a deep breath. Being attacked like that had traumatized you, but you felt as though you were on your way to dealing with it. You look up at your house and remind yourself that all the doors and windows were locked, and no one would be waiting to jump you inside.

You unbuckle your seatbelt and tightly clutch your purse. You nod. "I think so."

You step out of the car, and Dean walks you to the door. "You have my number," he says, "so if you need anything, just call."

You smile. "Thanks, I will."

"I mean, seriously, anything. You think somebody's in your house? Call me. You need medicine? Call me. You need tampons—"

You crack up and hold up your hand to cut him off. "Okay, okay, stop, I get it!"

He laughs, and your heart flutters again. The way he just lets himself go sometimes, when he seems so happy and sincere, is a wonderful thing to witness. In this moment, he's not hot or sexy or anything like that—in fact, there's really no word to describe what you see. You find that you're not just attracted to a pretty face, but to his actual personality. To hear his laugh and see his smile is the most wonderful thing you think you could ever witness.

You finally tear your eyes away and try to focus on getting the door unlocked. It's a bit tricky with one hand—your left arm is still in a sling—but you manage to get it open. You step inside and once again take a deep breath, trying to steel yourself for the prospect of spending the night alone for this first time.

But your heart still pounds, and you squeeze your keys in sweaty palms. To you, every nook and cranny has someone hiding in it, and you find yourself very reluctant to shut the door and continue to your bedroom.

Dean places a hand on your shoulder, and you jump, whirling to look at him.

"Woah, hey, you okay?" He asks, holding his hands up so as to not scare you with a sudden touch again.

You chew your lip—which has finally healed and gone back to its normal size—and turn your head to look back into your house. "Um, actually . . ." You burn with embarrassment, and you try to keep the tears of fear and shame out of your eyes. "Could you maybe . . . um . . ." You stop when your voice cracks around the hard lump in your throat, and you curse yourself for starting to cry.

But Dean doesn't seem to think anything of it, and all he does is smile reassuringly. "I'd like to stay the night," he says, "If it's okay with you?"

Your stomach unclenches and you smile in relief. "That would be great," you tell him. "Thank you."

He beams, and you step back to allow him inside, shutting and locking the door behind him. You give him a brief tour of your modest house, inviting him to go ahead and order some pizza while you get a shower.

Half an hour later finds the two of you crashed on the couch, binging Game of Thrones and stuffing yourselves with pizza. You thoroughly enjoy the food and the company, especially since it's a nice change from hospital food and next to no privacy.

Soon the evening fades into night time, and you don't even realize you've begun to fall asleep until Dean nudges you. "You probably shouldn't sleep cramped on the couch with those injuries," he murmurs.

You groan reluctantly, but push yourself up. Dean walks you to your room and helps you get into bed, since it's a bit awkward with only one arm available.

You point to your closet. "There's some extra blankets in there," you yawn, "So help yourself. And here—" You toss your extra pillow at him. He catches it easily and smiles. "Thanks."

"No, thank you for staying," you say. "Seriously. I'm really grateful."

He shrugs as he reaches into your closet to get a blanket. "Don't worry about it, it's really no problem." He tucks the blanket and pillow under his arm, heading for the door. "I'm happy to do it!"

The two of you stare at each other a moment, and something that you can't really identify passes between you. Then Dean blinks, as if remembering where he is, and gives you a shy wave as he shuts your bedroom door.

You wonder briefly what just happened, but then decide that it was probably nothing. You shift around, looking for a comfortable position, before closing your eyes and greeting sleep.

Unbeknownst to you, Dean stands outside your bedroom door, taking a deep breath. God, I like her so much, he thinks. But does she even want to be with me?

He heads back to the couch and begins to bed down. All the while, his thoughts are a whirlwind of activity. I hope she doesn't notice how flustered I get around her.

Dean always feels so giddy when he's around you, and the few times he isn't, you're all he can think about. He feels like he hides his nervous excitement from you pretty well . . . except for when you called him sweet and adorable. Dammit, he couldn't stop blushing then, and now he can't stop grinning every time he remembers.

But he's having a really hard time telling if you feel the same way about him as he does you. He doesn't want to actually flirt, because he doesn't feel it would be right. You were injured and vulnerable right now, and if you don't feel the same way, he doesn't want to make you feel like he's trying to take advantage of you.

Dean finally decides to wait a few days and see how things played out. Maybe once you were better, he'd ask you out . . . if he had the courage to do so.

Y/N's just so . . . He didn't even know how to describe you. She's just . . . amazing. I've never met anyone like her. She's incredibly intelligent, and funny, and interesting, and fun to talk to and hang out with. And beautiful. Good God, is she beautiful!

And Dean fell asleep thinking about you, a huge, unsuppressed smile on his face.

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