Dean x Reader One Shots

826 Days (Fluff) (Best friends with Dean for two years until...)

Summary: Imagine having been best friends with Dean for two years, then taking the plunge.

Word Count: 1,674

Two years, three months, four days.

(265)2 + [(31)2+30] + 4.

826 days.

You could smell him. Well, you supposed you could smell him before, too, but now? Now you could really smell him.

The detergent, the softener sheets he used now that they were in the bunker and they didn't need to scavenge for basic laundry sheets, you could smell that. The smell of cooking—that smell that always made you remember the times at your grandma's house, when you would go over during the day and watch while she made your favorite foods, while you took mental notes on every movement she made because some day you were going to be an awesome a cook as her, you could smell that. No whiskey tonight, though.

You didn't realize how hard he was—not in a sexy way, though you were likely going to figure that out soon enough—how muscular his abdomen, shoulders, arms were. Throughout the years you knew that he was strong, watched and assisted while he went through monster after monster, fight after fight, and every once in a while he would brush up against you and give you a hint as to how built up his muscles were, but now? Now you could tell that, without a doubt, he was built. Very built. Very strong and very able and while the muscles were hard, they weren't uncomfortable.

Had you told yourself in the morning, had you been let in on the secret of how this hunt was going to end, you wouldn't really have been surprised—you knew there was certainly tension between the two of you—but you would have been nervous. Wouldn't have known what to do with yourself. Likely would have tried to stay clean throughout the hunt, would have tried to keep your energy up, even at the end.

But that would have ruined it, right?

Because the only reason you were laying with him in the first place was because your bed was closer to the bunker door than his was.

It was because he was your best friend and you knew that he would be okay with sharing with you, with sleeping in the same bed as you without it being weird.

Exhaustion was high, you understood. He was tired, you were tired, neither of you even showered before collapsing into the bed and nearly falling asleep.

It wasn't the first time you'd shared a bed. In motel rooms, when staying with other people, it wasn't an uncommon thing for the two of you to sleep on the same stack of fluff and springs: different blankets, different pillows, but the same bed nonetheless. When in the bunker, it wasn't uncommon for him to get sloshed and for you to need to help him into his bed; at that point he would laugh and drag you into bed with him, then the two of you would have a half drunken conversation until the goon passed out from his intoxication. There was no point in leaving, you were comfortable, so you stayed.

That's when you were best friends. He was the person you could count on to talk to, to laugh with, and while Sam was awesome you knew there was something with Dean that you didn't have with Sam. Similarities, general chemistry. You could stay up all night with Dean talking about stupid shit and laughing at reruns of old shows; you could go to the bar with him and be his wingman without a hitch; you could mock-fight him one second and then be laughing on the floor the next because someone (it really could have been either one of you) decided that tickling should be a true defense mechanism when battling a monster.

You loved Sam, but not like you loved Dean.

That was when you were best friends.

But this time, when you were on the brink of unconsciousness, when you weren't thinking but you were still somehow aware of the world's existence, when you weren't awake but somehow you weren't quite unconscious, either, when you were extra sensitive to any noise because you were dancing on the small tightrope between consciousness and recharge, he told you something.