I Don't Bite [Dean Winchester x Reader] Book 2

4.17 Double Life

 Dean blinked blearily, his tired eyes taking in the pale morning sky filtering through the Impala's windows. He stretched as best he could in the cramped seat, wedging his shoulders against the door behind him. He stretched his legs out as far as he could, feeling his joints pop and blood flow return.

The lingering feeling of familiar hands on his bare skin faded as he roused. Hands he only felt in his dreams now. He dreamt of her every night, at this point. Her visage haunted him just as much as the books in the trunk about monsters. None of those age-soaked pages held anything about where monsters went after they died or how to revive them. Nothing. Not even Ruby had a clue, not without a soul involved.

Not that he trusted that bitch as far as he could throw her.

Two whole months. Two months of Dean going through the motions, pretending everything was fine. He pretended his anger was rooted in the apocalypse and its end. They all knew the truth, whether he admitted it or not. He was tired of how everyone looked at him when they thought he wasn't looking.

He jolted at the sound of knuckles rapping against the side of the Impala. Dean sat up with a fatigued scowl, the skin under his eyes dark. He fixed Sam with a weak glare through the glass of the passenger's side window. His brother returned his glare with a toothpaste-covered smile, the brush clasped loosely in one hand.

"How'd you sleep?" Sam asked before returning to his brushing. Dean sighed and slid out of the front seat. He sat on the edge of his seat with his back to Sam, door wide open, with his boots in the dirt.

"How d'you think?"

Sam shrugged at that, acknowledging the emptiness of his question. Dean hadn't slept much before, honestly, and they both knew it was worse now. He'd rather focus on driving and let Sam pass out in the passenger's seat than lie awake in the front seat for a few hours. At least he knew he would eventually collapse for a few hours when the road lines blurred into one.

"Y'know, you could try taking some supplements," Sam broke the silence again. He spat the last of his toothpaste on the ground, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Like melatonin, or something. Or, eating better can sometimes help with sleep-"

"Sam," Dean dismissed with the single word. Sam's lips pressed into a tight line.

"I'm just saying, man. You're running yourself ragged."

"Not like a rabbit diet is going to fix that."

"You never know until you try," Sam offered with a shrug, but he knew the conversation was at a dead end.

Dean pushed the heels of his palms against his eyes and sighed. They hadn't had much luck recently–not since Uriel's death, at least. Angels, the fuckers, kept throwing themselves in the brother's way. Dean's fingers twitched against his face, eager to grab Zachariah by the throat and throttle him after that alternate reality shit he had pulled.

All of it was just a distraction.

He stood with a huff and stomped to the trunk of the Impala. Sam's watchful eye followed him, a tight expression on his features as he observed his brother's taut posture. It's not like Dean relaxed much before what happened–he might be at ease, but he was always on guard. But now it seemed anything would set him off.

Sam finally averted his gaze when Dean popped the trunk and rifled through the contents of his duffel bag. He heard the sound of fabric as Dean tugged his shirt over his head and pulled on a clean one. He tossed the dirty shirt carelessly back into the bag, then zipped it closed.

"I talked to Bobby yesterday," Sam started, waiting for Dean to give any sort of acknowledgement. His words were met by the drop of the Impala's trunk and boots on gravel as Dean crossed back to the driver's side door. "He said Rufus might have something that could help us."